


Inspector Lestrade Investigates

by Rector



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: F/M, Romance, mysterious mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-01-04 15:37:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 64,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18346604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rector/pseuds/Rector
Summary: Greg Lestrade is in a rut: there's not much in his life that brings any joy these days. If this is a mid-life crisis, he'd rather skip it and retire. Maybe he needs a holiday. Maybe he should chuck it all in and go live on a boat. He knows something needs to change, but what?





	1. A Realisation

Greg was seriously starting to wonder if his days in the police were numbered. The excitement of solving puzzles, of helping put things to rights, of helping others, no longer left him satisfied. He was beyond exhausted these days, so tired he sometimes wanted to weep like a child. His life was little more than a daily churn as he lurched from one set of problems to another like some mad kind of pinball. Work was as frenetic as it ever got, with knife-crime going through the roof to the point that questions were being asked in Parliament about the state of youth violence. Bad enough in itself, but when people from his team were being beaten up and cut on the street in the course of their investigations, the top brass really started to worry. Despite all the drama however, it was all he could do to avoid lapsing into a state of inertia, finding it harder and harder these days to find the desire or motivation to begin anything. Nobody had said anything yet, but he'd caught a few odd glances.

And on top of the bedlam that was modern-day policing in London and a mental weariness he'd never experienced before, Greg Lestrade was feeling his age. Not so much in the sense of feeling _old_ , but he was always so drained, and there was this never-ending list of things that needed to be done outside of work, that all adults needed to do. Bills, legal stuff, problems that needed fixing, people who kept demanding his time or attention or money. Things like the laundry for god's sake. Laundry and cleaning and the weekly shop and maybe even cooking the occasional hot pot. What was it the kids called it these days ... adulting? For a middle-aged man, you'd think he'd have got the hang of it by now.

But then, maybe that was part of a bigger problem. Maybe that was why his marriage of nearly twenty years had floated off down the Swanee. Maybe he'd never actually come to grips with the notion of being the responsible one in the room, leaving all that to the wife while he gave his energy and effort to his work. It was easier in the office where there was an established hierarchy of accountability and individual responsibility as well as a line between those who did the right things and those that didn't, but where did you draw that kind of line in your private life? When you were the only one doing the stuff, where did it say what you had to do and what could be ignored? But when it was all he could do to crawl home at night and fall into bed and then crawl out again when the alarm went off the next morning, it was easier simply not to think too hard about it. He had precious little time left to do anything else but simply exist from one day to the next. It was all a bit depressing. Was this what a mid-life crisis felt like?

On a chilly Saturday morning in early March, he'd woken in the grey dawn despite being half-knackered from the day before. Using the last dusty t-bag in the box, he'd made a mug of char and sat at the cluttered kitchen table, blinking himself slowly awake. It was becoming obvious, even to himself, that things needed to change. Maybe he needed to go on one of those trendy work-life balance seminars everyone was rattling on about. Maybe he needed a break from things, from work, from his increasingly unworkable life.

Glancing around the kitchen, Greg noticed the near-squalor of unemptied bins and stacks of dirty china in the sink. The glass in the windows was dull with months of unwashed kitchen grime and, now he came to think of it, there was even a bit of a smell going on. His flat wasn't yet a wreck, but it wasn't far off. Not even Sherlock would want to live in a dump like this and that was saying something. Finishing the last swig of cooling tea, Lestrade sighed heavily. Clearly, he couldn't go on like this; something had to change. Closing his eyes in acceptance, he let his head slump back on his shoulders.

Right then. First things first.

Heading into the bathroom, he made himself take a thorough and more careful shower than usual, followed by a proper shave. He did everything slowly so that, even if this was all he managed to get done today, at least it would be done well. Eying his hair, he decided that a bit of a trim was in order. Not that anyone had said anything, but there were some personal standards one had to maintain, at least for work. Besides, a gentle stroll along to the barbers might be just the thing to clear his head. He could stop in the local Tesco on the way back and get some more tea.

Locating some relatively clean jeans and a t-shirt, he stuffed an ancient canvas shopping bag in his coat pocket and headed out into the cold morning air. Despite feeling the damp, Greg also felt a little better now that he'd actually got himself to do something, even something as simple as a bit of weekend shopping. Heading to his barbers in Greatorex Street, he peered in the window to see if it was busy or if he might get one of the three chairs without too much of a wait. As it was, Sam was just brushing up after the last cut and there seemed to be nobody else hanging around. The door tinkled as he walked inside, the steamy warmth a welcome change from the outdoor chill.

"Got time for a good cut?" he asked hopefully. Just because nobody was there didn't mean to say there wasn't a booking.

"Jeez, man," Sam Benares looked at him with a critical eye. "You been sleeping rough, hey?"

"Feels like," Greg managed a lopsided grin. "Work is crazy these days. No time for anything else."

"Take a pew," Sam waved him towards the empty seat. "Be right with you."

Hanging his coat up near the door, Greg sighed with relief as he sank into the worn red-leather chair, its seat and arm rests pummelled soft by the passage of many bodies. The fug of warmth, the clean smell of shampoo and shaving oils and the quiet murmurings of a distant radio relaxed him almost at once. Closing his eyes he felt the gentle movement of air around him and the vague sounds and low murmurings of other people in the room. With a sudden jerk, he pulled his head back as he almost fell asleep where he sat.

"You been burning the candle at both ends by the look of things mate," Sam swirled a black nylon cape around Greg's shoulders, snapping the studs tight at the back of his neck. "Work, hey?"

"Something like that." Greg rubbed a hand over blurry eyes and wondered when he'd last had a proper meal and a pint. Maybe after he'd done some shopping, he could treat himself to the images in his head. A nice pub lunch and a pint of bitter could be exactly what he needed. Closing his eyes again and letting Sam move his head around with gentle tugs and tilts, in less than fifteen minutes the deed was done. The sharp tang of skin tonic on his freshly razored neck made him sit up and blink himself awake yet again.

"You need to get your head down for a bit," Sam sounded mildly concerned. "It's not good to get yourself so tired," he grinned. "Spoils the good looks for the ladies."

"Chance would be a fine thing," Greg stood, reaching for his wallet. "Just getting enough kip these days is a big deal."

Shaking his head as he took Greg's twenty, Sam bounced on the balls of his feet and laughed. "Nah, man. Got to get yourself a lady. Get yourself some proper lovin' and things will be better, I promise."

Giving the younger man a sour sideways look, Greg nevertheless felt more invigorated than he had for a while. Perhaps Sam wasn't that far off the mark. Maybe he did need to take a bit more care of himself. Not that he necessarily needed female companionship; that boat sailed off into the sunset with Angela and her sports teacher over a year ago. He was too old and too tired to think about women right now.

Crossing back over Whitechapel Road, he wandered around to Tesco, the early morning shopping crowd directing trollies and small children in equal numbers. Finding a gap in the entrance, Greg grabbed a basket and headed for the bakery aisle. Choosing a couple of crunchy loaves, some of his favourite biscuits and a couple of ready-made meat pies, he picked up a bag of frozen vegetables, a large bundle of mixed fresh fruit and a bottle of milk. Finding the beverages aisle, he paused as he reached for his usual tea and instead stretched a shelf higher. There was no real reason for him to keep using the cheapest products; he had plenty of cash to support himself these days, so why not get the better stuff? Choosing not just a selection of more expensive teabags, he also pulled a small box describing itself as 'first-flush Darjeeling'. This meant almost nothing to him but a close sniff of the packet pleased his sense of smell and into the basket it went. A jar of decent honey followed with the final purchase being a vacuum packet of ground coffee. He knew he had a coffee press stashed away in one of his cupboards, so why not? He was in the mood to do things a bit differently for once.

Fifteen minutes later, he was filling the fridge and freezer with various bits and found he was whistling. He stopped, frowning. When was the last time he had whistled at anything? Shrugging, Greg put the rest of the shopping away and made a serious attempt to wash the dirty mugs in the kitchen sink. With all his new tea and stuff, he'd need something to drink it out of. Drying his hands, he caught sight of the clock on the oven. Half-twelve. Perfect timing for a quick visit to the pub. Checking that his t-shirt was acceptable enough for the lunchtime trade, Greg left his flat again, heading this time in a southerly direction towards Commercial Road. Turning the corner into Nelson Street, he caught sight of the timeworn swaying sign _The_ _Admiral's Arms_. An old, independent pub, it lacked any pretensions to gastronomic delights, trendy ciders or microbrews and therefore was patronised by an older, more understated crowd which suited him just fine. There was a TV in one corner with the football on; a banged-up dartboard over the unused fireplace and a couple of antiquated slot machines standing in front of a line of cheerful stained-glass windows. The place was already half full and Greg waited at the bar.

"Pint of Best and one of your steak and kidney pies, my good man," he grinned across the shining wooden bar at the host and owner of the pub, Colin Linesmith.

"We'll have less of that bourgeois nonsense in this establishment _if_ you don't mind, Inspector Lestrade," the tall publican glared back theatrically as he pulled Greg's pint. "Only signed-up proles get fed in here."

"Yeah yeah, you and the rest of the Capitalists, mate," Greg laughed. Ever since he'd accidently watched a documentary on Marx, Colin was determined to do away with the ruling classes. The fact that he'd been having an ongoing battle with a local brewery for the last couple of years didn't help things. "How's Maeve these days?"

"The baby's got colic, our eldest has discovered what boys are for, and Maeve's been reading the riot act," Colin rolled his eyes. "Fortunately, the dads of most of the boys Kelly likes drink here, so we've been able to keep a lid on things for the time being. Hang on a tick." Scribbling a menu order, Colin shoved it through a wooden hatchway into the kitchen area beyond the bar. Turning back, the publican scanned the bar to see if anyone else was waiting on an order before turning his attention back to Greg. "You been sick or something?" he asked. "Haven't seen you in a month of Sundays and you look like you've not seen daylight since last summer. You okay?"

"You're the second person to ask me that today," Greg sipped his pint with pleasure. He had been too long away from such simple indulgences. "Anyone would think I'd been in gaol."

"You haven't, have you?" Colin tweaked an eyebrow. "You hear all sorts of stories about bent coppers these days."

"Not from me, you've not." Greg put his glass down and wrinkled his nose. "It's just been really busy, is all."

"Found yourself a girlfriend yet then?" Colin's face was the picture of innocence.

"Christ what _is_ it with everyone today?" Greg's eyebrows compressed into a flat line. "I've got no time for women in my life right now. I've barely got time for me in it, let alone anyone else."

"Just asking, Greg," Linesmith smiled mildly in a noncommittal way. "Just making conversation."

"Yeah, sorry. It's me. I'm feeling a bit on edge of late. Maybe I need to take a break, get away for a holiday or something, though holidaying by yourself is pretty miserable." Staring down into his beer, Greg realised that he was speaking the unvarnished truth. He really did need a break, if not from work, then from whatever it was that was grinding him down.

"Got yourself into a right rut, by the look of things," Colin wiped down the stretch of bar top between them. "Maybe you need to give yourself a rest. Get someone in to do a spot of cleaning and housekeeping for you while you bugger off to Ibiza or somewhere warm for a few weeks. Get some sun on your skin; chat up a pretty local. Put some lead in yer pencil."

His lunch arrived and Greg escaped with the plate and the remainder of his beer to a small unoccupied table in the corner. He didn't at all fancy going anywhere on holiday right now, least of all by himself. But the idea of getting someone in to take over looking after the flat for a while might not be that bad an idea. He knew several people at work and not just senior staff, who had weekly cleaners ... maybe it wasn't an unreasonable idea. He could afford it, after all. The flat was relatively modest, only a two-bedroom place in one of the less affluent areas of the city. His share of the profits after he and Ange had sold the house had been more than enough to buy the place outright so all he had to worry about was living costs, and a single man with no social life and little in the way of expensive habits could live fairly well on a DI's salary, especially now the London loading had gone up again. How long would it take a professional cleaner to go right through his humble flat and how much did they charge per hour?

Enjoying the crispy golden pastry of the ridiculously tasty pub lunch, Greg had half made up his mind to do it. People all over the place did it; hard-working professionals who simply didn't have the time to take care of domestic things. Yeah. Though how to find a good one?

Pulling a copy of the previous day's newspaper across, Greg turned to the classified ads in the rear pages. _Tidy choice cleaning_ ... _Just Helpers_ ... _Cleaning Express_. None of the names really caught his eye. Maybe he needed to look online where there could even be some reviews from previous customers.

"I thought you might be thinking about what I said." Colin Linesmith walked over with a tray to take Greg's used plate and empty glass. He held out a small white card. Here you go; the wife swears by this mob. They really did well by her after what she went through with the baby."

Nodding, Greg recalled that Maeve's late and unexpected pregnancy had left her with all sorts of problems, physical and emotional. He glanced down at the neat script.

 _Charmed Cleaning. Domestic cleaning done in a flash_.

Taking the card, Greg nodded his thanks. "Good to know" he said, still undecided. "I'll let you know if I ... y'know," he offered, vaguely, sliding the card into his jacket pocket.

"Give it a go," Colin called back over his shoulder. "You'll never know if you never try."

Strolling back to the flat, wondering if having a bit of an afternoon snooze meant he was turning into an old man, Greg took out his mobile and rang the number on the card. What the hell. If it didn't work out, it would be easy enough to stop.

"Charmed cleaning. Lily speaking."

"Hi Lily. I, _ah_ , I would like to arrange for someone to clean my flat. Please." Greg frowned at his own hesitancy. The receptionist sounded very young.

"Certainly sir. We're able to handle every type of domestic situation for you. How big a property is it and how often would you like it cleaned?"

" _Ah_ , it's a two-bedroomed, second floor flat. I'm in Whitechapel, Myrdle Street. _Um_ ... once a week, maybe?"

"Not a problem at all sir. May I have your name, address, phone number and a contact email address so I can send you our services brochure? I'm sure we can provide any cleaning or domestic management service you might need."

"Sure." Greg spoke slowly to ensure his details were taken down correctly. Despite her obvious youth, Lily was doing a grand job.

"Excellent, Mr Lestrade. I'll have the necessary details emailed to you in a jiffy. If you have any questions about anything, feel free to call us at any time."

"Yeah, that'd be great, thanks." Shoving the phone back in his pocket, Greg made a face. Well, he'd done it now. He'd give it a try for a few weeks and see how things went, and if it didn't work out, well at least he'd be no worse off than he was right now. Heading back to his flat, he wondered what they'd think of the mess he lived in and thought he might try tidying up a bit before anyone came over.

A silvery-haired woman dressed in grey dungarees and a warm jacket stood outside the main front door of the building which housed his flat. She was obviously waiting for someone and turned to meet his eyes when he approached.

"Mr Lestrade?"

Greg had no idea who she was; he'd never seen her before and he'd certainly not expected anyone to be visiting him at home on a Saturday afternoon. The woman produced a small card, identical to the one Colin Linesmith had given him. _Charmed Cleaning. Domestic cleaning done in a flash_.

"I wasn't actually expecting anyone to come around until I'd gone through your brochure," Greg collected his thoughts as he glanced between the writing on the card and the woman's face. Her hair suggested a certain age, but her face was unlined and she couldn't have been more than thirty-five at most. Clear grey eyes gazed out from a pale smooth complexion. She was smiling.

"Rowan Good," she offered her hand. "I apologise for this impromptu visit, but I'm only down the road and Lily wants to get this arrangement finalised quickly," she said, pulling a glossy paper brochure from her capacious bag. "I thought I'd bring an information sheet for you and, if it's not too much trouble, have a look around your flat to be able to give you a specific quote for cleaning services. Would it be convenient for me to come in?"

No, it wouldn't. Not really. Apart from washing a pile of fermenting coffee mugs, Greg hadn't touched the flat or much of his laundry for several weeks. It was a total pit and there was no way he'd want a complete stranger being put off by the slovenly disorder that awaited upstairs. The woman seemed to read his thoughts and smiled again.

"I was in a house last week with thirteen cats, three toddlers and a teenager deconstructing an old motorbike engine in his bedroom," she sounded perfectly calm. "Do you have thirteen cats?"

"No," Greg found he was smiling too. "Just the untouched mess of a very busy Metropolitan police officer."

"You're a policeman?" stepping inside the main door as Greg opened it for her, the woman seemed impressed. "With all the demands put on your shoulders it's no surprise you're hardly at home these days," she said. "Is this you?"

Without realising he'd done it, Greg had brought them to the front door of his flat, the brass door key already in his hand. "Er, yeah, it is," he smiled fleetingly as he let them inside, closing his eyes in instant shame. If his mother could see the state of the place, he'd never have heard the end of it. "It's a bit of a mess, I'm afraid."

"What lovely light you have from these windows," Rowan Good looked around, taking in the respectable size of the rooms, the height of the ceilings and the freshly painted bathroom. The several piles of cardboard boxes in the unused bedroom obviously prompted her next comment.

"Just moved in?" she asked, walking to look out of one of the lounge windows.

"About a year ago," Greg puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. "There's just no time these days or, at least, I've not found it in me to make the necessary time to do more than the basics."

"Not to worry," the Charming cleaning lady met his eyes and she was still smiling. "You clearly want to make a fresh start and I can help you with that," she said. "I charge twelve pounds per hour and your apartment would probably take me ..." pursing her lips, Rowan scanned the room around them again. "A major clean of around four hours on the first occasion, with weekly follow-ups of between one and two hours each," she added. "That would mean your entire flat from top to bottom. You would have a home your mother would be proud of." Rowan's smile was calm and assured and somehow restful. Greg felt better simply listening to her.

"That sounds great," he admitted, relieved. "When could you start?"

"I have tomorrow morning free, as it happens," Rowan pulled out her own phone and began typing something. "I can be here when you leave for work," she said. "Eight-thirty?"

It was a good guess. He usually left around that time which got him to the Yard just on nine. She'd need a key.

"I'll need a key so I can lock up after I've finished," she said, still peering at her phone. "Lily will email you a standard contract so that everyone involved is insured in case of mishaps. It makes sense not to take any risks," she added. "If you could complete the form and email it back to her, then we'll be good to go. Don't worry," she said, watching his expression, seeing a faint indecision in his eyes. "I've done this many times."

There was something about her confidence that engendered immediate belief and calm acceptance, Greg realised. Not only had he completely stopped being worried about the shocking state of the place, but the idea of this woman working in his flat each week seemed nothing less than completely normal. Walking into the cluttered kitchen and pulling open a drawer, he lifted a ring of spare keys into the light. Squinting, he found the twin to the front door key and wriggled it free of the metal hoop.

"Then I'll see you tomorrow, first thing?"

"First thing," Rowan agreed, waiting for the cold metal to fall into her hand.

###

There was a grey sky and a light drizzle when Greg awoke the following morning. Though it was a Sunday, it was his turn on the duty roster though hopefully, it would be a quiet day and he could focus on his paperwork. Immediately, his brain started to roil with all the things he knew he had to do today at the Yard. Prepping for interviews and meetings, the charge sheets he had to review and sign off, the monthly stats report, the endless, endless updates on standing investigations and then and only then, would he be able to find time for any new stuff waiting for him at the threshold of his office. It was a nice office, with great views across the Thames but he was usually so bogged down with work that he almost never lifted his head these days. The only thing that made this particular morning a little better was the knowledge that he'd taken the very sensible step of exerting control upon his living conditions. The new cleaning lady would be arriving this morning and, one way or another, he'd hope to see some sort of improvement in his living conditions by the time he returned later tonight.

After taking a few minutes to put the clean mugs away and with a piece of cooling toast in his teeth, Greg was on the verge of closing his front door on the way out when the lift several doors down the passageway pinged open. Bang on eight-thirty, Rowan Good rolled out of the lift pulling a substantial but efficient-looking trolley behind her.

"Right on time," Greg grinned around his toast. "I was just on my way out."

"Don't let me keep you then." Her grey eyes smiled at him again even though the rest of her body was fairly well wrapped up in overalls and a tightly tied scarf wrapped around her head, keeping all but the wispiest of hairs under wraps. She looked ready for action.

"I'll be off then," he said, backing off towards the lift. "Let me know if you hit any snags."

Standing by the open front door of his apartment, Rowan Good smiled her calm smile. "Have a wonderful day."

Waving, Greg took the lift down to the basement carpark. For better or worse, he'd set things in motion and he may as well get on with it. Reversing his BMW from its parking spot, he headed along Whitechapel Road before turning towards the Embankment and Scotland Yard. Though most of his focus was already on the trials ahead, he allowed a stray thought to wonder what would greet him when he returned home.

###

Closing and locking the door behind her, Rowan brought her trolley into the kitchen. Bless the man; he'd tried to put the place to rights before she came in this morning. Her heart went out to him. He'd been through a lot in the last year or so and it was of little surprise that he'd slumped down into a trough of malaise and apathy. Still, now that he'd found it within himself to at least hope for a fresh start, she was able to step in and help him along. It was all part of the job. Staring around the kitchen, Rowan Good decided this was as reasonable a place to kick off as any. Starting from the top of the room, she walked around opening every single cupboard door she could see. Then all the drawers. Then the microwave, the oven and even the fridge. Satisfied she'd done her bit to get things moving, she sat on one of the kitchen chairs and opened the top section of her trolley. It was completely empty except for a small silver thermos flask which lay next to a pristine bone china cup and saucer. Beside that was a tiny lidded sugar bowl with a small pair of silver sugar-tongs. Unscrewing the thermos, she poured herself a cup of fragrant tea, adding one crystalline lump of sweetness. It was going to be a long morning.

Sitting back and tasting the steaming liquid with obvious enjoyment, Rowan closed her eyes and composed her thoughts. Sipping the tea she smiled into the empty air. "Begin."

Instantly, the sink started filling with hot soapy water.


	2. Something is Very Different

He'd never had a cleaner before. His mother had briefly _been_ a cleaner until her knees packed up, and he dimly remembered earning pennies as a nipper helping old people get their heavy bins to the kerb for the bin men. But he'd never had a cleaner _in_ before and he wondered what to expect when he got home. Not that he was expecting too much: the state his place was in, the woman would need a sand-blaster to get rid of the ingrained dirt. As a sop to his latent decision making, he'd checked out the cleaning company online and they looked on the up and up, which was good news. Likewise, if Colin and Maeve Linesmith vouched for them, there couldn't be too many problems. And the woman, Rowan, who had appeared with such miraculous timing … well, she certainly seemed kosher. Odd though, now that he thought, Rowan Good wasn't really the sort of person he imagined being a cleaner. She was clearly educated: just listening to her speak and seeing how she dressed and behaved was enough to make that obvious. Mind you, the only experience he'd had with people who cleaned other people's houses had, apart from his mum, been with individuals he'd met in the line of duty, so to speak. Thus, some of his encounters with the profession had been less than positive; the Milehouse Murderer who bludgeoned several of his customers to death for their antiques being one that particularly sprang to mind. Not that the charming Ms Good had given any indication she was so inclined. Greg knew his thoughts were rambling but he was unaccountably nervous. Of what, though? Something had set his antennas twitching, though he had no clear notion what it was. He just knew he was waiting … for something.

Poking listlessly through the various piles on his desk he wondered if he needed a life-coach more than a cleaner. Since the end of his marriage, he seemed to have veered from the straight and narrow. Not that it was anyone's fault but his own, but everything felt like it had gone downhill of late. It was as it he'd taken a left-turn when he should have gone right and now he was hopelessly lost. Or maybe it was just that he was always so bushed, so bone-deep tired. Sighing, Greg lifted the thick current investigations file out of the morass and began working his way through the developments on all active cases for his end-of-week report. Not the most exciting or engaging activity but it had to be done and at least it passed the time.

Half-five rolled around and, despite his lacklustre approach, Greg had to concede that a fair amount of work had been completed. Not all of what was needed by any means, but a respectable dent had been made and the knowledge lifted him a little. He'd had a couple of discussions with the Welfare Officer after his divorce, not that it had made any great difference at the time. The divorce rate among Met employees was just about the highest in the country, so he was only one of many. The knowledge hadn't helped in the least, but he seemed to be encased in some sort of fog as far as his personal life went. Nothing really made any sense anymore. The welfare woman had suggested some general counselling sessions might help but Greg had been too emotionally spent to do anything about it at the time. Perhaps he was ready now.

But today, he had a cleaner and as Greg cleared his desk prior to leaving for home, a flicker of excitement stirred in his chest. How sad was that. The only thing he had to look forward to these days was a clean flat. Chucking things in his lockable desk drawer, he was mildly pleased to see some clear desk space for once. He smiled briefly. Perhaps he should ask Rowan Good to come and sort out his office as well.

Traffic on the way home wasn't all that bad. Having phoned an order in ahead, Greg was able to park his car outside of his favourite Chippie and collect his dinner without waiting. He was going to celebrate whatever his cleaner had managed to do with a Cod-and-chips and a bottle of lager. The fresh tangy scent of hot chips and vinegar made him realise how hungry he was for once and he headed for home with a growing sense of anticipation.

Outside his front door, Greg hunted for his key, shaking his head at himself. He knew he was building this up out of all proportion; after all, his situation was hardly unique. Sliding the brass Yale home, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. It was dark, naturally, at this time of evening in March, but he paused again before switching on the hallway lights.

It was the faint smell that caught his attention, holding his fingers on the switch. An old fragrance, distantly recalled from his childhood, reminiscent of the seaside and warm hay. Sniffing again, Greg detected something fresh and faintly sweet; not a perfume or a cloying artificial air-freshener, but something that might have blown in from a summer's day. It was really quite lovely. Breathing the nostalgic scent deep into his chest, he clicked the main hallway switch on, not sure what he was expecting. The woman was only a cleaner after all. She couldn't work miracles.

Unaware his jaw had dropped; Greg stared at the bit of real estate immediately in front of his eyes. Was this actually the correct flat? For a second, he almost stepped back outside to check the number on the door, but stopped himself. It had been the right key, after all.

The cluttered, grungy hall connecting the main living space in the flat with the kitchen, bathroom and bedrooms at the back was neither cluttered or grungy anymore. Beneath all the detritus and dust, there was some decent natural timber flooring, the dark golden wood now gleaming softly off into the distance. There was even an elegant carpet runner extending the length of the passageway, a soft moss-green with some sort of subtle classical pattern down its centre. The rug, which he couldn't remember owning or having seen anywhere in the flat, looked as if it had just been shampooed. Bending down, he brushed his fingers across the top of the deep, thick pile. It was softest wool and must have cost a packet. Now where in the hell had such a nice rug been in the year he'd lived here?

Against the wall behind the front door was a tall but narrow piece of furniture he'd pulled out of a skip one day on the way home. With a variety of shelves and hooks and small cupboards, it fitted perfectly in to the limited available area and did useful service as a coat rack. Tugging off his heavy winter overcoat, he stopped again before he could hang it up. The old storage cabinet _shone_ , the wood having almost the same dark golden glow as the newly-revealed floorboards. Greg had no idea the thing was even real wood: he'd imagined it was cheap particle board, held together with ancient melamine and glue, but there it was. Cleaned and polished and looking right at home in the space behind the door. There was even a shallow china dish waiting for his keys and loose change. He'd not seen the whole of the flat yet but already he was feeling irrationally cheerful.

Taking his bag of fish and chips into the kitchen to grab a plate and fork, Greg swayed a little as he took in the scene under the electric lights. The small table and chairs had been moved over to the far right wall, freeing up far more room in the middle of the kitchen than he thought was possible. The floor itself, which he assumed had been covered in old brown lino, turned out to be the same golden boards as the passageway and it looked unbelievably good in the warm brilliance of the downlights.

 _Downlights?_ Since when did he have downlights? Glancing back at the light switch by the door, not only was there a light switch for the central kitchen pendant, but also a second, smaller one directly beneath it. Had he been using this kitchen for a year and not noticed there was a second switch? Peering closer, he saw the actual tab was round rather than square ... _no_. Dimmers? Twisting the round tab a fraction, he found he did indeed possess dimmers as the downlights muted and flared beneath his touch. Bloody _hell_.

Hardly daring to look at the cesspit of a sink or the crusty old windows, the bag holding his dinner dropped to the floor from suddenly nerveless fingers. It really looked as if he'd got a brand new kitchen. Everything that was stainless steel shimmered brightly without a scratch or dent. The glass panes in the windows, backed by the night sky, were perfect mirrors, lacking any mark or spot to mar their flawless finish. Even the paintwork looked new and unscratched. Turning to stare at the kitchen cabinetry, now surely a far more intense grey and white than he'd left them that morning, everything not only looked more vivid but things seemed to fit better inside the room itself, though that surely had to be a trick of the eye. Opening one of the lower cupboards to get a dinner plate, Greg paused yet again. The inside of the cupboard was a pristine shining white, his few bits of china and crockery rearranged, giving off a glossy patina you only saw on the brand new stuff. Had Rowan Good cleaned the contents of his kitchen cupboards as well as the kitchen itself? Feeling almost blasé now, Greg slid open his cutlery drawer to find that, yes, all his bits and pieces of cutlery were ordered and shining. Even the cheap plastic drawer-divider looked as if it'd been replaced by a newer, better version of itself.

Deciding to leave his dinner for a couple of minutes while he took a look around the rest of the flat, Greg headed into the small but relatively modern bathroom. Pushing open the door, he saw that every scrap of fluff and lint that had gathered in the corners had not only been thoroughly evicted but the tile grout around the entire room had been scrubbed to a brilliant white. The glass walls surrounding the shower were showroom fresh and he now had matching navy towels on the heated steel rail which for once, he reached out tentative fingers, was actually warm. Shaking his head in mild disbelief, he poked his head around the back of the door and ... yes. His old blue robe hung there, apparently freshly laundered and looking far newer and more attractive than it had any right to do. Everything in the place matched beautifully, like one of those bathrooms you sometimes saw in design programmes on the telly. Shaking his head, Greg stepped back out and aimed for the main bedroom.

 _Jesus H. Christ._ If the bathroom was ready for the photographer, then the bedroom was ready for a film crew. Same furniture, same bedclothes same ... everything, but it all looked so much more _luxurious_ than he remembered, the various shades of murk he'd had strewn about the place this morning were now tasteful hues of coffee, tan and white and seemed far more coordinated. One of his mismatched bedside lamps seemed to have vanished. The floor was the same gleaming golden wood that had suddenly appeared in the rest of the apartment. Now, he _knew_ there used to be a big old square carpet on the floor in here, although he'd not seen it rolled up anywhere since he'd got home. Maybe it had fallen to pieces when it was being cleaned ... vacuumed ... whatever, though Greg didn't really care if it was missing because what was left, what was here, _now_ , was fucking _amazing_.

His stomach reminded him that he was actually quite hungry and that his dinner was cooling in a bag on the newly cleaned kitchen floor. Hustling to throw everything onto a plate and pop it in the microwave for a minute, Greg felt only mildly surprised when he saw the inside of the micro looking as brand new as the rest of his stuff. Deciding to leave any further exploration until he'd eaten, he immediately changed his mind when he remembered there was a chilling bottle in the fridge with his name on it.

The intense arctic glare that was now the inside of his sale-bought Kenwood fridge-freezer made him squint. He couldn't believe it. The woman had cleaned the inside of his fridge? Reaching down for his beer, he saw the green bottles were all neatly arrayed in one of the fridge's lower racks. His bits of cheese and dairy were in the cheese and dairy shelves, the fruit was in the crisper drawer at the bottom and everything else was carefully placed with their date labels facing front. Who, in the entire history of refrigeration, actually ever filled a fridge like this? Shaking his head, he grabbed his reheated food and, yes, dammit, _a glass_. As with everything else, his few odd gleaming pieces of glassware were now artfully arranged inside a glinting glass-fronted cabinet. He could see all the empty space inside and decided that maybe going out and buying some nice beer glasses wouldn't be such a terrible idea.

Apart from the spare bedroom he'd been using as a makeshift office and storage dump, the only other place he'd not looked at yet was the main lounge. He had no idea what could possibly have been done in there because the only things _in_ there was a flat TV, a banged up coffee table he'd rescued from the same skip as the coat rack, and a leather Chesterfield so ancient Methuselah would have recognised it. Balancing his plate and cutlery in one hand and his glass of beer in the other, he pushed the lounge door slowly open with his foot.

That there were the same burnished floorboards in here was almost to be expected by now, but the room had a new sort of spartan minimalism that whispered deliberation rather than desperation. Greg peered at the walls. They were clean and white, mind you, they'd been white when he left, but now... they seemed to have taken on a faint glow. The flatscreen TV, his one major indulgence since the divorce, had been lifted up off the floor and rested on some kind of low black table. On closer inspection, he saw it was the wooden shoe rack from the bottom of his wardrobe. It looked much better out here than in there. It raised the telly just enough so that its positioning looked calculated and fully intentional rather than completely uncaring. The old settee was still clearly old, but its leather had been cleaned and conditioned and buffed to a sumptuous lustre. He could even smell the rich oils in the polish and a faint reminder of old summer flowers. The scarred and dented timber coffee table, now cleaned and burnished, had taken on an altogether darker tint, more russet than anything else and looked artfully worn rather than simply beaten up. The combination of the austere gleaming walls and the few feature pieces was unforgivingly masculine. The rich, dark colours, the lack of anything remotely delicate: this was definitely a man's room. He found the atmosphere surprisingly agreeable.

A quiet thrill ran down his spine. For the first time in a very long time, Greg experienced a sense of pride and quiet enjoyment in having somewhere like this to live and call his own. It was the first time he could remember feeling this way since long before Angela had left, taking the remains of his self-worth and dignity with her. Using the remote to switch the TV on, he sat back in his newly revived couch with a newly revived sense of self-esteem and ate his chips with enormous enjoyment. He'd have to get a message to Rowan and send his unreserved thanks for her efforts which were, in his eyes, little short of magical. Not only had the woman somehow completely renovated his flat but in the doing, had given him back a nebulous feeling of value, as if living in a nice place with nice things was a right he had abrogated for too long. If a complete stranger could see the potential in here, then perhaps, so should he.

Whatever else he was going to do, Greg was determined to send her a thank-you bunch of flowers. First thing in the morning.

###

"What do you mean you've got nobody called Rowan Good working for you? She was cleaning my flat only yesterday!" Greg pressed the phone hard against his ear as if that might make the words clearer.

"I'm very sorry, Mr Lestrade, but we've only just actioned your contract this morning. We were going to contact you later in the day to arrange a time for your first clean. If anyone came in and serviced your property yesterday, it certainly wasn't one of our cleaning teams. None of our people even work on Sundays, at least, not for us."

"But she gave me a copy of your card, she even mentioned you personally by your first name," Greg shook his head as Lily, the company receptionist, continued to sound genuinely baffled. "Nicely spoken lady, medium height, silvery-grey hair but looked mid-thirties, grey eyes, brought a big grey trolley on wheels with her." Greg knew there had to be a logical explanation for this, some reason that brought Rowan Good into the picture in a sensible, rational way.

"Did this lady actually say she worked with us?" the receptionist wasn't backing down despite his insistence. "Did she have one of our identification passes?

Did she? Had he even thought to ask for her ID? Greg blinked and frowned. It was one of the most basic rules of urban behaviour these days; you _never_ let anyone inside your house until you knew exactly who they were and why they wanted to come in. _Why_ hadn't he asked to see her identification?

"She gave me one of your company cards and she used your name specifically," he spoke slowly as he thought back to the conversation of two days prior.

"A card that any one of our previous clients might have on hand and my name which, as I recall, you used when you said hello to me on the phone, possibly overheard? While I agree it does sound very strange, I can only repeat that we do not have anyone called Rowan Good working for us, nor anyone who looks like the lady you've described. I'm really sorry; Mr Lestrade, but I can't explain why she did what you say she did. Do you still want us to proceed with your contract?"

Agreeing that yes, he still wanted a regular cleaner, beginning next week now that his flat had already been well-cleaned only yesterday, Greg ended the call. Sitting back in his office chair deep in thought, a calculating expression sharpened his features as he worked his way through all his dealings with the mysterious cleaning lady. He intended to find her and discover what she was up to.

"You got a minute, Guv?" Donovan knocked and poked her head around the door, only to pause on seeing his face. "Something wrong?"

"Just thinking about how domestic cleaners are invisible," he murmured with a faraway look in his eyes. "They're like postmen and bus drivers; you never really pay them any attention, do you? They come in with a trolley full of buckets and dusters and that's it. You don't even ask for an ID."

"You're thinking about the Romsford case, aren't you?" his sergeant slowly raised her eyebrows, nodding. "There actually _was_ a cleaner on the list of people who had access to the deceased, but nobody thought about looking in the trolley for the murder weapon." Pausing again, Donovan smiled. "That's a brilliant bit of deduction," she said. "I'll pop round with a uniform and have a chat with her, shall I? Maybe ask her for a look in that trolley of hers. If she says no, I'll call in for a search warrant and let the forensic boys have it. You've still got it, Boss." Giving him a wide smile that he couldn't remember seeing for some time, Greg watched, mildly amused as Donovan talked herself into an idea. Though, come to think of it, it actually was a neat bit of rationalisation even if it wasn't his. It would do no harm to check.

But where would he go about finding the mysterious silver-haired cleaner? Rowan Good genuinely seemed to know everything about the cleaning company, up to and including the receptionist's name. She also knew about the company's procedures and processes; she knew about the need for a contract, for instance. But how could she possibly have known he'd just spoken with Lily the receptionist on the phone? Was it conceivable she'd been stalking him for some reason? But no, that wouldn't work either as she'd been waiting for him outside the main door of his building, so there was no way she could have been following him to hear his phone conversation _and_ been in front of him to wait at the front door.

Racking his brains, Greg tried to recall the actual words the woman had used. She'd said something about Lily wanting to get the contract finalised and then there was something else, something… about… being in a place the week before with thirteen cats. That was it! Rowan Good had told him she'd been in a place with the cats and three kiddies and a boy working on a motorbike. He'd pressed the redial on his phone without knowing he'd done it. Waiting for the long-suffering Lily to get through her spiel, Greg got to the point.

"Lily, my apologies, this is Greg Lestrade again. When I spoke with the woman calling herself Rowan Good, I remember her saying that she'd been in a place last week with thirteen cats… do you have a customer with lots of cats and three small children? I realise this sounds like something for Alice in Wonderland, but I am simply trying to get to the bottom of the mystery. It must be the policeman in me."

"Police?" Lily paused before saying anything else, her voice uncertain and very young again. "Is this a police matter, then?"

"No, not as such," Greg rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I'm asking as a private individual, but you can rest assured that I'm not making this up and, if it turns out that this is some sort of scam, then it will quickly become a police matter. If this woman is a con-artist and she got past me then she's going to be able to get past anyone. I really do need your assistance here, Lily. Is there _anything_ you can tell me?"

There was a faint but extended sigh.

"We don't have anyone like that woman working for us…" Lily spoke slowly and deliberately.

"But?" Greg sensed there was more.

"But you're not the first person to ask about her."

_Rowan Good had done this before?_

"You've had another customer who's had dealings with a silver-haired woman claiming to be a cleaner working for your company?"

"Only one," Lily said, clearly unhappy. "There's no evidence of anything and the lady decided not to report it to the police as no key or anything had been taken or done wrong..."

"I gave Rowan Good my spare key," Greg frowned again.

"Didn't the woman leave it behind this time? She did at the other place."

"Lily, I want to speak to your other customer who met this woman. I need their details."

"Oh, I can't do that, Mr Lestrade," young Lily was back on firmer ground. "We're absolutely forbidden to give out customer information to anyone, not even the police. We've been told."

Sighing silently as he stared up at the ceiling of his office, Greg had an idea. "If I give you my office number, would you please contact the other customer and ask them to phone Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard who would very much like to have a chat about a mutually concerning mystery?"

There was a pause as Lily thought it over. "I can do that," she said. "But what if she doesn't want to talk to you?"

"Then I'll have to chalk it down to experience and change the lock on my front door, I expect." Greg felt his patience wearing thin. "Will you at least try for me?"

"I will, Inspector Lestrade. I'll do it right away."

###

For some reason, the strange situation with the cleaner seemed to have sharpened his thinking about other things as well. Sorting through several piles of forms and printouts on his desk, he realised that a good percentage were either out of date or really shouldn't have come to him in the first place. After weeding out those documents that were less than confidential and of no real relevance to him, Greg calmly chucked them all in the recycling box.

The next thing he did was sift through the remaining stuff to see what could possibly be handed to someone else with very little effort on his part or preferably, no effort at all. Once he'd done that, what was actually left for him to action was in fact a much smaller and surprisingly neat little pile. Of these remaining forms, a third required only a quick review and a signature, another third required that he discuss the contents with others and the last few bits of paper were updates of information for ongoing investigations.

Tearing through the reviews, Greg signed the lot one after another. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the middle bunch to the front of his desk and picked up his phone, speaking to each recipient quickly and efficiently. Inside of an hour, he was able to scribble a quick note of completion on the bottom of each one and set them aside for filing. Spreading out the remaining sheets like a hand of cards, he shouted for Donovan.

"Yes Guv?" Sally looked around the half-closed door.

"I need the Martine Galloway file, as well as the files for the Keith family, the Santana night club, the Camberwell arson case and the Lambeth cigarette factory file," he looked up, grabbing the pile of signed papers. "And you can take all of these with you for appropriate further action, if you don't mind."

Her eyes widening in surprise, Sergeant Donovan looked between the cleared desk, the expression on Lestrade's face and the pile of papers in his outstretched hand.

"Someone's been a busy bee," she observed, taking the papers. Her eyes scanned the cleared desk. "Nobody's seen the top of that desk since Christmas."

"I decided it was time for a change," looking up, Greg smiled briefly. "Fresh start and all that."

"About damn time," Sally nodded as she headed back to the door. "I'll get you those files right away."

Deciding to grab a coffee and a sandwich, Greg headed downstairs to the small staff teashop on the first floor. Though there was far less space in this new building than there had been in the older Yard headquarters in Victoria Street, the internal spaces had been very cleverly redesigned. The small eatery had the look and atmosphere of a trendy café. Deciding not to head straight back to his small office and eat over a file, Greg ordered a large and aromatic coffee and something with chicken and green stuff and bean shoots all wrapped up in a soft blanket of unleavened bread. It tasted surprisingly good. Grabbing an unoccupied seat by a window facing out over the river. As he admired the scudding clouds filling the London skyline, his mobile rang.

"Lestrade."

"Inspector Lestrade?" A woman's voice, slightly cautious. "Greg Lestrade? This is Joanna Foy up on level five in the Counselling Office. You left a message for me?"

Frowning, Greg thought back through his phone calls of the day. He knew he considered speaking with the welfare mob, but he couldn't recall actually doing anything about it. Or had he? He'd piled through so much stuff during the morning, was it possible he'd done it and forgotten?

"Sorry," he paused, unsure what to say. "I can't actually remember leaving a message for anyone in staff welfare. I must be losing the plot."

"Oh no," there was a slight hesitation. "You didn't ring me here in work. You wanted to speak to me about that odd cleaning lady we both seem to have encountered."

Greg's skin prickled. Two people in the same building, working for the same organisation with the same problem? His copper's intuition took off its coat and rolled up its sleeves.

"I think we need to talk," he said.


	3. Cherchez la Femme

It was simpler and far more discreet for him to go up to the fifth floor than to have someone from Welfare come down to his office. If he decided he was going to have an official talk with the counselling people, he'd do so in his own time. Greg preferred to avoid anyone in investigations putting two and two together to make five, especially since nobody gossiped like a bunch of coppers. Fortunately, Joanna was just about to take her own lunch break so his visit was timely. Despite the extracurricular nature of their connection, Greg found it impossible to be anything other than a copper at this point. He tried not to play the detective with a colleague, but thirty years of policing decided otherwise.

"Describe how you remember her." Greg had brought the last of his coffee with him and sipped it as they sat in comfy chairs in one of the small counselling rooms. Picking up a glass of water, the woman in front of him frowned, inhaled perceptibly and looked skyward as she recalled what details she could. In the few seconds she took to collect her thoughts, Greg couldn't help but observe his associate with a policeman's eye.

Early thirties and comfortable with herself. A smidge over average height though she wouldn't really quite qualify as tall. Light brown hair that hung to her shoulders, tweaked behind her ears. Pale London skin and calm, mid-brown, almost fawn eyes. A light touch with the make-up, just enough to define her brows and eyelashes and lips. Not one to waste time on unessentials. Short, unpolished nails and a plain gold ring on her right hand. Her clothes were in natural colours. A bit of a mouse and entirely ordinary. He'd not actually worked with Joanna Foy before in any official capacity, but these welfare bods were much alike: relaxed and soft-spoken for the most part.

"It was more than a month ago, at the beginning of February." Still frowning, Joanna sat back in her chair, lacing her fingers together. "I remember she had a young face," she turned her tawny eyes to Greg, her thoughts focused back in time. "Silver hair and light complexion," she added, narrowing her eyes as more details hung at the edges of her memory. "A little shorter than me. The first time I met her it was a cold day and she was wearing a thick grey puffer jacket and pale, faded trousers, possibly old jeans or perhaps simply pale coloured material." Joanna shook her head. "I only saw her twice, and even then, only briefly but I remember thinking she was all in grey."

"Twice?" Greg thought back to his own encounters with Rowan Good. _Yeah_ , twice.

"The first time was outside my house and the next time was early the following morning, a Friday, just as I was leaving for work. I gave her my spare key in case she needed to leave and get back in ... and that was it. She'd already told me she charged twelve pounds an hour and that she'd probably take three or four hours on the first clean, but that's pretty much all she said. I've not seen or heard from her since."

"Did she give you her name?"

"Rowan. She called herself Rowan Good." Joanna smiled. "I remember it well as it's a fairly famous name in some circles."

 _Famous?_ Someone was going around using a famous person's name? It was Greg's turn to frown. The name didn't sound familiar to him, so whoever it was she was impersonating couldn't be all _that_ well known.

Smiling, the counsellor shook her head. "Not that kind of famous," she blinked slowly as the smile reached her eyes. "Historically famous. One of the Salem witches was called Sarah Good."

 _Oh_. Greg raised his eyebrows tellingly, meeting Joanna's amused gaze. Her eyes really were rather arresting ... you didn't see that kind of golden-brown shade often. "You saying you think this woman is impersonating an old witch? 'Cos I don't think I'm going to be able to buy that in this day and age."

"I'm not suggesting anything, though you'd probably have an argument with my daughter on that score. She's really into the literature of the time for a school project on the historical persecution of minorities."

"Your daughter," Greg knew it was a bit of a stretch, but you worked with what you had. "Would she have spoken with this woman? Any chance she might remember something different to you?"

Pursing her mouth and shaking her head regretfully, Joanna looked doubtful. "The children were with me that morning Rowan came in to clean. We were all leaving the house and she arrived with her trolley. There really couldn't have been any time for either Beth or the boys to have spoken to her as we were heading to the car for school. We were coming out as Rowan was going in. There was almost no chance of a conversation."

 _Almost_. Greg always heard the _almosts_.

"Did you discuss the situation afterwards with any of your kids?" he asked, rubbing his chin as he thought. "How old are they?"

"Beth ... Bethany's twelve, going on forty. Jack's nine and Max is nearly seven, why?"

"And your husband?" Greg sat back in the soft armchair mentally lifting Joanna's age by five years. "Did he have any interaction with this woman at all?"

"My husband died in a hit-and-run the same year Max was born. It's only me and the children, I'm afraid."

She spoke the words so unemotionally that, for a second, Greg didn't absorb what she'd actually said. As soon as his brain caught up with his ears, the ring on her right hand was explained. He was chagrined with his foot-in-mouth approach and the feeling warmed his face.

"Don't worry about it, Inspector," the counsellor's smile returned though it held a faint twist of regret. "Almost everyone expects there to be a husband around when they hear I have three children. Please don't feel awkward."

Rather than uselessly apologising, Greg nodded and looked down at his clasped hands. "You must have a very busy life with a job here and coping with three growing kids," he said, meeting her eyes again. He was impressed. Hard enough to bring up a family with two active parents; she must be tougher than she looked. "And please call me Greg. I think the situation calls for a definite lack of formality."

Joanna's gentle smile returned as she recognised his faintly uncomfortable expression. "Don't forget I'm a professional counsellor. I deal with loss and grief on a regular basis. If anyone should know how to cope in such a situation, it would have to be me."

"Yeah, but not quite the same thing though." Greg sat back and smiled fleetingly at her matter-of-factness. It took all sorts of bravery to work in the Met these days.

"Not quite, no." Joanna sipped her water.

"Did the woman take your key? Have you had the lock changed since she was in your house?" Greg returned to the heart of the matter as he remembered his own situation. If he was concerned about his key being in the questionable hands of the very strange Rowan Good, he'd no idea how he'd feel if there were kids involved. His brow creased at the idea Joanna's children might actually be in any kind of danger.

"No, I hadn't thought about it to be honest. She left the key behind in a small jar I keep near the front door for the children to put their loose buttons. I didn't even think of looking for it until the next day, but there it was. Did she take yours?"

"I thought she did but now you mention it, I'm not sure. I'll have a look when I get home tonight. It would still be sensible to change the lock; she may have made a copy. You never know."

The counsellor's face grew serious as the notion sank home. The idea hadn't even crossed her mind and she shook her head at her own naiveté. "It simply never occurred to me."

"Best to be on the safe side," Greg looked reflective. "I'll be doing the same thing at my place, whether the key was left or not. Can't be too careful these days."

"And then, of course," Joanna took a deep breath as she addressed the elephant in the room. "There's the small matter of the unbelievable cleaning job. I don't know about you, but our house looked like a small army had gone around getting it ready to be put on the market. I've not seen the place so immaculate since we moved in, and that was before Jack was born," she watched Greg's expression. "Did she do the same thing at your house?"

Nodding slowly, Greg allowed his memory to supply a picture. "Oh yeah," he agreed softly. "Even the inside of my fridge looked brand new." He met her gaze. "Not just cleaned but ... but ..."

"Transformed?" Joanna arched her eyebrows. "Upgraded?"

Greg nodded. "It was way more than a cleaning job, that's for sure."

"It's not just the fact that the place was cleaned but things were left looking _so_ ..." Joanna spread eloquent fingers.

"Yup, know what you're saying," Greg nodded again. "Like someone waved a magic wand."

"You'd better not say that in front of my daughter or you'll never hear the end of it." Joanna shook her head. "Beth's at that stage where she wants there to be princesses in long dresses and heroes on white horses but at the same time, she's realising that life doesn't always give you happy-ever-afters." The counsellor looked briefly subdued. "The children had to grow up very quickly after their father died."

Grey wanted to speak to the girl on the off chance she'd exchanged even a word with the so-called cleaner, but he wasn't sure how to ask, not now after what Joanna had just said. Her kids needed to keep every little bit of childhood they had left. A small brainwave arrived.

"Look," he said, trying not to sound too calculating. "If I'm going to be changing the lock on my front door, it would be a simple job to come and do the one at your place as well," he said. "That way we'll both know that we've done what we can."

"But it's been over a month since she was at my house," Joanna frowned. "Do you genuinely think there's still a risk?

"With your kids involved, do you want to take the chance?" Greg watched as his words sank in. The counsellor bit her bottom lip and nodded.

"No, you're right," she said. "It's foolish not to fix a problem, even a potential one." Meeting his gaze again, she gave him another of the smiles that went all the way up to her eyes. "We've got one of those cylinder Yale jobs."

"Me too." Greg raised his eyebrows at yet another small coincidence. "In that case, you don't even need to change the lock itself, just have the tumbler re-keyed. Piece of cake. You got a different key you can use?"

"I think there's a pile of old keys in one of the kitchen drawers," Joanna looked faintly relieved. "Will it be expensive?"

Again, Greg kicked himself for not thinking. With three growing kids and only the one income, of _course_ money would be tight, especially in London. "Nah," he grinned. "The lads have a mountain of gadgets downstairs that come in handy, one way or another. I happen to know for a fact there's at least a couple of those little key kits in there; it only takes ten minutes to check everything and reset the pins. Would you be okay with me coming over to your place and fixing it for you? I swear it's no big deal."

"But you'll have other things to do, surely?" the counsellor was instantly tentative. "I wouldn't dream of imposing."

"It's no problem, honestly," Greg leaned forward. "Unless you live out past Watford or somewhere?"

"Bermondsey," Joanna said. "Fountain Green Square, right on the river, at the end of Bevington Street. We were lucky that Steven's life insurance paid off the mortgage. It's quite a nice spot for the children, though there's a lot of industrial traffic flying around the place these days, what with the Tideway project right next door."

Greg blinked as a map of London panned through his brain. "That's almost right across the river from me," he said. "I've got a place in Whitechapel. I could be over Tower Bridge and down your way in ten minutes," he grinned again. "Not even a hint of a problem, as long as you'd be okay for me to change your lock," he said, watching her face. "Though you might feel more comfortable getting a professional locksmith in?"

After a pause, Joanna shook her head. "As long as you're absolutely sure we'd not be putting you out ... I'd be more than happy to give you some petrol money or something ..?"

"Don't even think about it." Greg stood. "It'll cost nothing and I'm almost literally just up the road. I'm going to do my own lock tonight when I get home," he said. "Would later this evening be convenient for me to come to your place? I imagine your three would keep you on the hop most of the time."

"Well, if you're quite sure?" Joanna also stood. "How about after dinner? The boys are usually in bed by eight, but it doesn't sound as if you'll be using power tools, will you?"

Shaking his head, Greg turned to the door. "Just a little box of tricks and a screwdriver," he said, shrugging. "Though I can't promise there won't be the odd heated word. Those things are on the fiddly side."

"I'll have the kettle on for you."

###

After changing into jeans and an old sweatshirt and grabbing a bite to eat from his shiny new fridge, Greg sat at his well-lit kitchen table and opened the metal box he'd borrowed from work. He'd no idea where this particular piece of kit had come from but he wanted to check everything was there before he headed over the river. His own lock would be a trial run.

The long narrow tin was divided into small internal sections, each of which contained sets of tiny metal pins of different widths and lengths. Rekeying a cylinder lock was simple once you had the knack of it, but it had been a while since he'd done one. Staring down at the tin, he swore under his breath before going to look for his reading glasses. After searching all over the flat and in all the usual places, he tried the very last place they could possibly be, the one place he'd never leave them. The spare room.

It was the one room he'd not checked out the previous day, knowing it held nothing more than unpacked cardboard boxes, a rickety chair he kept his laptop and paid bills on and some ancient shelving. There was nothing that his mysterious cleaning lady could have done in there and so he hadn't thought about it. Until now. Pushing the door wide, Greg stopped short at the threshold of the room. He blinked. This was his pokey spare bedroom; his unused storage space of general crap, flat-pack shelves and bits he'd salvaged from the ruins of his divorce. There was nothing else in here, certainly nothing of any substance.

Except now, there was.

The stacked boxes were gone, banished to who knew where. In their place was an office. A proper office. Greg knew this because his brilliant detective abilities told him he was staring at a proper office desk. This was strange because he knew for a fact that before yesterday, he had not possessed a desk of any kind, least of all a proper one.

Whistling under his breath he prowled cautiously around the room. Not only was there a solid black wooden desk sitting in the middle, but the neglected Ikea shelving had been removed from its various boxes and assembled with a skilful hand. And then it had been sanded and varnished. His fingertips ran softly across an empty shelf. The surface was darkly glossy and exceptionally smooth beneath multiple coats of inky shellac. He sniffed carefully, but no hint of heady resin tainted the air or his fingertips. It would have been impossible to varnish anything in here without stinking the flat out for days, even with all the windows wide open and the one in this room, he checked it thoroughly, was well locked.

Behind the desk was a chair, but not any old chair. At first blush it looked like the love child of the leather settee and the TV from the front room: all long dark angles and sombre burgundy leather upholstery, though the nearer he got, the more classy it became. The top of the desk was clear except for two items, the first of which was an artful lamp that, upon closer inspection, turned out to be the one missing from his bedroom. Except it was now sprayed to a sleek satin darkness and changed in ways that made him think of an Italian car. The second thing on the desk was his outdated laptop, something he barely touched these days. There was always too much work to give himself the pleasure of the vast music collection he'd accumulated and stored in the ancient device.

Carefully, Greg pulled out the chair and sat himself in it. It was far more comfortable than any imaginary figment had a right to be. He relaxed into its decadent embrace and closed his eyes at the faint whiff of supple leather. He'd had a vague plan of turning this space into an office, but he'd never had the time even though he'd always wanted one just like this, with a chair he could sink into. Blinking his eyes wide, he looked down at the rear of the desk. On the right side of a roomy knee-space was a set of three drawers and to his left, a single large one. Sliding the top right drawer open, his eyebrows lifted of their own accord as he saw his reading glasses sitting in solitary splendour. His slow smile, when it arrived, was faintly manic. The whole situation was completely mad. There was nothing in any of the remaining drawers. Opening the old-fashioned HP laptop he saw it was fully charged, another impossibility, as it had never held a full charge even when he was using it on a regular basis and it had been a year since he'd even touched the thing. He was tempted to turn it one and see if there were any changes but he had a suspicion it might require time that he didn't have right now.

Moving his eyes around the rest of the room, Greg saw that the golden floorboards had made it in here too, as well as the gleaming wall-finish. All that was needed to make this a fully functional space for him to work or even sit and listen to his music ... was himself. It was as if someone had taken a picture of the idea in his brain and made it real. He shook his head again. There was some crazy weird shit going on here and he wasn't ready to look at it too closely just yet. Maybe tomorrow. Collecting his spectacles, he left the room, a deeply thoughtful expression on his face and headed back to the front door. Pausing, he checked the small dish Rowan Good had seen fit to place just inside the entryway.

 _I'll be damned_. A shining Yale key lay in the centre. He knew it was his without needing to touch it. So the cleaning lady couldn't be done for breaking and entering, that was for sure. Not yet. It was just one more mad thing he had to think about. He turned his attention back to the lock.

Now that he was actually able to see what he was looking at, he remembered the pin-changing routine. Swinging the door inwards into the full light of the hallway, he undid the miniscule screw holding the cylinder into the lock frame; it was out and in his hand in less than five seconds. From there he followed the necessary steps to remove the pins that fitted his current key. Fishing out an old brass key he'd found in his desk in work, he delicately filled the seven pin holes with appropriate-sized replacements. Within moments, the new key was in the lock and the lock back in the door. Screwing it back into place, Greg glanced at his watch. _Seventeen minutes_. Not bad for someone not trained as a locksmith.

He wondered what he'd find in Bermondsey.

###

"It's rude to stare." It was the second time Joanna Foy had caught her eldest son watching their visitor with an unrelenting concentration.

The first time was barely two minutes after Greg knocked on the cheerfully-painted blue front door of the small terraced house in Fountain Green Square, sandwiched between several similar dwellings on either side. The only thing differentiating each house was the colour of the doors. Inviting him in and immediately offering him tea in the time-honoured British greeting ceremony, Greg felt eyes on him. He turned and saw a young boy with golden-brown curls in Batman pyjamas sitting on a small settee. Young, but too big to be six.

"Hello," he said. "I bet your name is Jack. Am I right?"

There was a fractional nod. The child's big brown eyes were wide and curious.

"My name is Greg and I work in the police, the same as your mum. I've come to fix your front door."

There was no further movement. The brown eyes remained fixed and steady. Greg smiled and turned towards his colleague. "I take it he doesn't get to see many strangers around the place."

Joanna shook her head. "Neither of the boys are terribly outgoing," she said. "Beth is the brave one in the family and the boys are happy to follow her lead. At least for now."

Realising that there were all sorts of bravery happening in this house, Greg checked his watch. Not quite seven. Maybe he could use a helper. He glanced down at the boy who watched everything with his mother's eyes.

"Would you like to help me fix the lock on your front door?" he asked carefully. "Only there's some very small pins and I've got big fingers," he added, waggling his digits. "See?"

"What kind of pins?"

Pulling the flat tin from his coat pocket, Greg waved it in the air. "Can we use that to lay a few things out?" he asked, pointing to a small table.

"Of course," Joanna gestured to the large wooden box serving double duty as table and storage unit. "Would you like to help, Jack?"

Nodding uncertainly, the boy stared as Greg set the tin down, lifting the lid as he did so. Inside were the multiple sections filled with the different types of minute steel pins,

"You have a good look at these," Greg straightened up. "I'll go and get the lock and then you can get the right pins out for me, okay?"

Throwing himself onto the carpet so he could peer right into the small container, Jack Foy was immediately engrossed with the tiny shining bits of steel.

Winking at Joanna, Greg walked back out to the front. Glad that he'd had a chance to practice before he drove over, he managed to have the lock's cylinder out and the door closed again inside of ten seconds. It was going to be a chilly night and he made sure the door was properly shut before he came back into the warm to where he'd left Jack. This time, three sets of young eyes lifted to his face as he re-entered the small front room.

A girl on the cusp of adolescence, the spitting image of her mother but with eyes of a darker brown. There was also another mop-headed boy with slightly fairer hair and nightwear suggesting his main interest was the Mutant Ninja Turtles. The combined wattage of the three young Foys' focus could have powered a laser through concrete.

"It's rude to stare," Joanna returned from the kitchen, handing Greg a big china mug covered in cats and the small notepad and pen he'd requested. Sitting down on an old leather poufé, Greg displayed the slender brass cylinder for all three children to see.

"You know your mum has a special key to open your front door?" he asked, glancing at each of the three faces. "And only that key will open the door, which makes everything very safe for everyone?"

There were three brief nods.

"This," he said, lifting the small cylindrical tube, "is the inner cylinder of your front door lock. And I'm going to show you how to make it take a new key. And you can all help to make sure it's done properly and then test it when I'm done. Can you help me?"

After a brief moment of contemplation, there were three more nods.

"I'm Beth." Joanna's daughter decided that she wasn't completely happy being put in the same boat as her baby brothers; after all, she was practically an adult. She held out her hand.

"Hello, Beth." The child's fingers disappeared inside his own as he shook them very gently. "I'd appreciate you testing this for me once I'm done, if you don't mind."

"I'm happy to help," she said. "Why are you changing the front door key?"

"Because it's a good idea to keep checking your house security from time to time," he said. "And because I've had practice doing this and your mum hasn't."

"Is that because you're a policeman?" Max watched his brother's fingers as Jack moved the shining pins around. "Is that how you catch crimbinals?"

"Sometimes it is, Max. We all have to be very clever these days when it comes to catching bad people." Taking a narrow black tube, Greg wiggled it into the rear of the lock's cylinder, pushing the barrel forward just as he pulled the lock's pin bed out the other end.

"Now this," he said, showing the pin bed to the children. "Is the serious part and the bit where I need your help the most Jack, okay?"

His attention squarely on the tiny brass rod in Greg's fingers, Jack nodded seriously. "What do you want me to do?

"I'm going to need your sister to write down the size of the replacement pins when I call them out, and then I need you to find them in that tin and dig them out for me. They have to be the exact right size or the lock won't be any good." Looking between the solemn expressions Greg kept his smile to a minimum. This was serious police work. He handed Beth the pad and pen.

Joanna passed over a new Yale key and Greg set about measuring the chiselled valleys carved into the brass.

"192," he said. Beth scribbled furiously. Having found the correct section inside the tin, Jack was already hunting for the corresponding pin. It was pale blue and shiny. He laid it carefully down on the coffee table.

"93 ... 102 ... 81 ... 83 ...130 ... and, last but not least ... 79." Finishing the measurements, Greg looked down at the neat line of coloured pins. "Right," he said, picking up the brass cylinder still with the old pins. "Everyone ready?"

Three very _interested_ nods.

With a flick of his hand, he tipped the cylinder over and the existing pins fell out onto the table with a small clatter.

There were three small gasps.

"Is it broken?" Max sounded intrigued.

"No, because now, you're going to help me put these new pins back into these empty holes, lads. Your fingers are much more nimble than mine." Greg waggled his fingers again as he inserted the new key into the now empty cylinder. Max nodded. The difference was obvious.

"Okay, Mr Inspector," Jack nodded. "What should I do first?"

"Beth, what's the first number you wrote down for me please?"

"192."

"And which pin is that one, Jack?"

"This light blue one," the boy picked it up.

"Right. Put that pin in this hole for me please."

For a brief space of time, the room held its breath. The blue pin fitted perfectly within the first hole.

"Can I do one?" Max looked at the next pin. It was a glinting purple. He liked purple.


	4. Joining Forces

"You'd have made a terrific teacher." Joanna handed him a fresh mug of tea as she took a seat across from the settee. "You had those three glued to your every word for over an hour. The only other person to manage that was Mary Poppins."

"At least they all know how to use the key in the lock now, even Max." Greg groaned as he eased his back, stiff from hunching over the low table. "I thought you said the boys were quiet?" He smiled. Once the lock had been re-keyed and replaced in the door with some ceremony, Jack and Max had been a mass of questions about other things you had to fix when you were a policeman.

"They are, usually." Joanna relaxed into the armchair. "Even Beth was giggling which is nice. As the eldest, bless her, she decided to be a mini me after her father died. She's much too serious for her own good so it was nice to see her having fun like that. Thank you for coming over and doing the lock, and for being with the children. It's very kind of you."

"Nothing kind about it." Greg sipped his tea. It was brewed perfectly to his taste and he sighed at the simple pleasure of a good cuppa. "They're good kids," he nodded to himself. "How are they doing at school?"

"They tend to keep to themselves; look after one another, the normal behaviour of children thrown on their own resources." Joanna's forehead pinched, as if the conversation was not one she wanted. "Now that the locks are changed, what next? The cleaning company itself was no real help when I asked about Rowan, and until you left that message for me, I'd no idea anyone else had even had the same experience. It was a surprise to discover the one person who had happened to someone in the same building as me. Got any ideas?"

"Where did you get to hear about the cleaning company in the first place?" Greg asked, drinking his tea. Maybe they could work backwards to a common denominator. "I was given the card and a recommendation from some friends of mine who run a pub. They told me the cleaning people had looked after them well, though they didn't say anything more than that. I can go and ask for details. What about you?"

"I was given a card too, by a nurse I know." Joanna nibbled her bottom lip. "She had to stop work to look after her ailing mother and she had it very tough for a while. I think she won a free houseclean in a lottery, though I don't know the ins and outs of the situation. It's all very strange, don't you think?"

"I'll say." Greg arched his eyebrows at the understatement.

"No, not the bizarre guerrilla cleaning, I mean the idea that you and I are the only ones it's happened to and we both work for the Met, even in the same building. What are the odds?"

"I don't believe in that much coincidence." Greg shook his head. "I'm going to keep digging, I think. There's too much here for me just to let this pass." Finishing his mug, he stood. "Thanks for the tea."

"Thank you for coming over and seeing to the lock," Joanna smiled gently. "I hope you didn't abandon your own family, just to help us out."

"Nah. Divorced a year ago and so I've only got myself to cater for." He rolled his shoulders. "It was good to get out of my flat for a change," he turned, heading towards the front door. "If you find out anything more about our mutual mystery, let me know. I've got a feeling about this. Something very strange is going on and I intend to find out what."

"You don't think we should just leave it go?" Joanna stood inside the half-open door. "Count ourselves fortunate that ... _oh!_ " Her eyes went wide. "I completely forgot. Quick, come with me."

Almost dragging Greg back inside the house, she beckoned him to follow her through the kitchen to what was a tiny utility room at the back of the house, so compact he could touch the opposing walls simultaneously.

Except it wasn't a utility room anymore.

"This place was more of a big cupboard than anything else," Joanna gestured at the narrow sink and abbreviated benchtop by the window. "We used to keep the winter gear there," she pointed to a corner. "And there was a ladder against this wall and a broken bookcase and an old mattress from Max's bed right here," she said, touching the wall behind them. "But, as you can see ..."

Nodding slowly, Greg could indeed see very well. No longer a storage room, this minute space seemed to have experienced a similar transformation as had his own spare bedroom but whereas he got his dream home office ...

"Look like you've got yourself a proper little studio," he said, his eyes taking in the gleaming white walls, stone-flagged floor and the wide skylight above their heads. A solid-looking electric potter's wheel took pride of place, along with a small kiln in the corner that had once housed the Foys' spare blankets. There was a wire shelving rack behind them, home to a variety of what looked like professionally glazed and unglazed bowls and pots. "You didn't have this before?"

Shaking her head emphatically, Joanna looked serious. "I'd always wanted space to throw clay," she said. "It was something I did a lot of at college but, what with the children and then Steven ... I never seemed to have either the money or the space for this," she waved her hand around the room. "I was utterly dumbfounded when I saw it but I have to say, it's been the most wonderful experience having this here. I get to work a little with the clay at night when Beth's gone to bed. It's incredibly relaxing," she looked rueful. "It's probably the reason I haven't bothered to chase any of this up, if I'm being honest. I didn't want to lose this. The children are convinced it's magic but then they're right in the middle of the Harry Potter books."

"And what do you think?" Greg watched her face. "Logically?"

Her hands lifted, palm up. "Truthfully? I haven't really processed it. But all of the work that was done here and, I suspect, at your place, must have cost a fair bit of money, especially getting everything done in the space of a few hours." Joanna shook her head slowly. "I have no rational account for any of this."

Saying nothing, Greg drew a deep breath. "Even though it looks like we've both been visited by Santa, there _has_ to be a logical explanation," he said. "I got a swanky home office, something I've always wanted, and you got ..." He paused, a terrible thought dawning on him.

"You don't think we're part of some bloody awful TV show where they change our houses around and wait for us to go slowly mad as we try and work it all out?"

"They'd have let us know by now if it was," Joanna shook her head. "There's a difference between pranking someone and stalking. If anyone did this to somebody else's house without permission, they'd be in real trouble, I assume." Cocking her head, she looked at the police officer in the room. "Besides, how would they know what we wanted? I never told anyone I wanted this."

"Yeah," Greg pursed his mouth judiciously. "And if they somehow knew that about us, then they'd definitely know our employer and the last place they would have chosen to mess about with are a copper's digs, let alone two people who work for the police. Nah," he scowled, narrowing his eyes and chewing the inside of his lip. "It's got to be something else. Something we're not seeing. There has to be some sensible, rational reason for all this."

"So what's the plan?" Joanna rested her hands on her hips. "Between the two of us, we should be able to get all the information there is to be found."

About to suggest that she leave the detecting to him, Greg looked at her ... really _looked_. There was nothing mousey about Joanna Foy right now; the way she stood, the resolute expression on her face. He imagined this was how she looked when the kids played up. The thought made him smile a little.

"Can you get back to that nurse who set you up with the cleaning company and I'll contact the people who gave me their card. That way, we'll at least have traced this thing back another step, see if we're the only ones to get the magic wand treatment, or if it's a bigger concern. See if you can find out how your friend got involved and if she knows anything about anything. Let's see how deep the rabbit hole goes."

"You got that from the Matrix!" Joanna accused, laughing.

"Probably," Greg grinned. "That's what a lifetime of dodgy sci-fi will get you," he paused, realising. "How did ..?"

Lifting a hand, Joanna looked mildly superior. "Before you ask, in the interests of complete transparency, I must tell you that Jack is an avid fan of anything with spaceships, aliens, robots and most especially, special effects. We have a wide and varied collection of DVDs the children get to watch on wet weekends," she laughed again. "He'd have tried to stay awake to talk to you even longer if he'd known."

"Maybe next time." Greg headed back out of the front door. It was full dark now and the night was chill. "At least the lock's safe," he said. "Don't let anyone else have a copy just yet."

Her thoughtful look travelled with him all the way back to Whitechapel.

###

As it was still relatively early, there was no time like the present. Leaving his car in its usual place, Greg walked down to Nelson Street, calling into the Admiral's Arms just as the place was picking up with the evening crowd. Colin Linesmith gazed askance as he strolled up to the bar.

"Looks like Lestrade, walks like Lestrade, even dresses like Lestrade, but it cannot be so," he said, enunciating each word very carefully. "Lestrade of the Yard was in here only two days ago and it is unheard of," he paused, leaning on his side of the polished bar. " _Unheard of_ , for Inspector Lestrade to come to this pub twice in the same week," he stopped, a quizzical look on his face. "Who are you and what have you done with my friend?"

"Yeah yeah, very funny. I'll have a pint of Best please, Col."

"Yeah, okay, but what's the deal, eh Greg? Birthday or somethin'?"

"I'm actually here on what might become official police business, Mr Linesmith," Greg took the cold glass and enjoyed a long sip. "I'm making inquiries, you might say."

"Oh yes? Something nefarious going on in the shadowy lanes of Whitechapel, eh?" The publican teased.

"Actually, it's more of a personal matter between you and me," Greg leaned in until the space between them was confidential and relatively intimate. "It's about that cleaning company you put me onto," he said. "I would appreciate a word in your shell-like ear," he added. "In private."

His expression turning blank, Colin Linesmith frowned slightly and nodded. "Gimme a sec," he said, disappearing behind the tall refrigerated cabinets.

Taking his pint, Greg leaned against the bar and thought thoughts. The fact that Colin hadn't laughed in his face suggested there might be more to this than he'd first imagined.

"Greg? Through here if you would." Linesmith held open a door at one end of the bar, leading into a small private room which obviously did service as the pub's office. Invoices lay piled across the desk and plastic-wrapped cases of soft drinks and specialty mixers were stacked high against the walls. A banged up steel filing cabinet stood in one corner. The space smelled vaguely of beer. There were two chairs. Colin took one and gestured Greg to its twin.

"You've been in touch with the cleaning people then?" the publican's tone was carefully neutral.

"You could say that," Greg contemplated his glass.

"Any ... problems?" Linesmith's eyebrows lifted casually.

"Not problems as such, Col." Putting his drink down, Greg leaned forward on the desk. "Just some strange things happening to me and a colleague of mine at the Met," he said. "She was given a card to that cleaning company too. We both had a visit from a woman named after a Salem witch." He fixed Linesmith with his 'I am a policeman, tell me everything' expression. "The results were very ... odd."

"Odd?" Colin Linesmith was not normally known for such reticence. Greg arched an eyebrow of his own and stayed silent.

"Ah bugger it." Linesmith slumped back in his chair, exhaling heavily. "Maeve told me I shouldn't have given you that card. She said it might cause trouble."

"What kind of trouble, Col?" Greg relaxed slightly. He was getting somewhere. "Why didn't your wife want me to have that card? It's only a cleaning company, after all. Where's the wrong in that?"

"Look Greg," Linesmith rubbed a hand over his face. "It's not trouble in the way you think of trouble."

"Then explain what you mean so I can understand, but I tell you now, it had better be a bloody good story given the experience I've just had."

Taking a deep breath, the publican met Greg's eyes squarely. "You know Maeve and I weren't expecting a baby to come along so late?" he said. "Maeve's already forty-six and when she started feeling a bit funny, we thought at first she was starting the change. Imagine how shocked we both were when we found out she was pregnant! Anyway, what with one thing and another, she was having a really rough time, with all sorts of medical issues and then she started getting depressed and even after the baby was born, there were lots of things that just weren't right. I was at my wits end, I swear I was, Greg. I had no idea where to turn for help." Reaching over for a can of lemonade, Linesmith cracked it open and gulped half of it. He looked haggard.

"Anyway, there we were. Our two eldest were being neglected because all we could think of was the baby and Maeve's health, which really wasn't the best. Just when I was thinking of trying to get the pair of them into some sort of nursing home, I sees an advert for this company what specialises in home care services, childcare and cleaning and shopping and whatnot. I had the idea that if I could get someone in to look after everything else, then me an' Maeve could maybe relax a bit and work our way through all the problems a bit at a time."

"Hmm." Greg thought for a moment. "Where did you find out about the company? You say you saw an advert? Where was it?"

Colin frowned, looking down at the can in his fingers. "Y'know, I'm not really sure. It could have been in one of Maeve's magazines or in the local rag. I can't say for certain, sorry mate."

"And that was the same company you recommended to me?" Greg frowned. "The card you gave me just said it was a cleaning organisation, not a home-services supplier."

"Yeah well, that was the card she left with us the last time she came in," Linesmith sagged in his seat. "Sorry. I didn't think it would cause that much trouble."

"Wait a minute," Greg leaned forward again. "When _who_ came in for the last time?"

"Dawn," the publican looked up. "The woman from Charmed Cleaning."

"Her name was Dawn? Describe her."

"Tall, big-build. Caribbean, I'd say. She certainly had an islander kind of accent to her, especially when she got to singing."

"You were around when this woman came in to do her work?"

"Oh yes," Linesmith nodded. "Had to be really; Maeve wasn't up to doing much the first couple of times Dawn came over."

"Wait ... wait," Greg held up a hand. "The woman that came here to do whatever it was she did was a big Jamaican woman called Dawn and she was here several times and you both met her and spoke with her?"

"Well ... yes, of course we did. Why?"

"You never saw a medium-sized woman with silver hair dressed in grey?"

"Nope. Never. Only Dawn."

"And what exactly did this Dawn do when she was here?" Greg sat back, folding his arms.

"Mostly she walked around singing and tidying the flat up." Colin shrugged. "The place was always a little bit tidier and more organised after she left, but it was her singing that we all remember the most. Lovely voice she had, Very soothing. Put Maeve and the babe right to sleep every time."

"So let me get this right," Greg blinked, looking up at the ceiling as if the words he wanted lurked up there. "You hired a woman called Dawn to come and clean your flat upstairs so that Maeve could relax and look after herself and the baby, and this, possibly Jamaican, cleaning lady went around tidying up and singing? Is that about the size of things?"

"Yeah, and she got Kelly and Derek to do their homework and use their headphones when they watched the TV or listened to music so that everything stayed fairly quiet up there," Linesmith tipped his chin toward the flat above them. "It was just good to have her around the place. It was as if ... _nah_ ," he wrinkled his nose and looked embarrassed.

"What? Tell me." Greg leaned forward again.

"It was as if Dawn ..." Linesmith hesitated, hunting for the words. "As if she brought something peaceful and calming with her," he said. "As if Maeve and the baby got whatever it was they needed just by being in the same room as her." He made a face. "It's hard to explain but whenever Dawn was around, everyone felt happier."

"So there wasn't any spectacular cleaning work going on, or rooms being changed, just a Jamaican woman going around singing a lot?" Greg wanted to be absolutely sure he had the gist of the situation.

"Yeah, that's about right," Linesmith sounded more cheerful now he'd shared the story. "Once the baby started teething and Maeve bucked up, that was the last we saw of her. When I phoned the number on the card she left us, the one I gave you, they said she'd moved onto a new job, so we didn't think any more about it."

It was Greg's turn to heave a sigh. This wasn't at all what he'd expected to hear and certainly Colin and Maeve's experience bore no similarity to his and Joanna's.

"Well, okay," he picked up his glass. "It sounds like you got a good deal out of it all."

"Yup," the publican sounded altogether more cheerful. "We got what we needed even though we didn't know we needed it. Can't really complain about that, can I?"

Sipping his beer, Greg shook his head slowly. No, he supposed they couldn't, not really.

###

Late the next morning, he was on his office phone agreeing to sort out a staffing problem, when one of the other lines flashed red. Excusing himself momentarily from the payroll discussion, he stabbed a finger at the flashing light to see who was calling and ask them to call back. It was Joanna.

"I'm on the other line," he said after she told him she had information. "Look, it's almost lunchtime. You want to nip out and grab a sandwich or something so we can talk privately?" Agreeing to meet thirty minutes later at a small cafe on Parliament Street, she was waiting, having already organised her own food before he arrived. A large plastic bag sat on the seat beside her.

"I have a counselling session in forty-five minutes and I can't be late. I hope you don't think me rude for ordering."

"Not at all." Greg looked down at her plate of stew and dumplings which on a cold grey March day seemed a terrific idea. "I'll have the same as she's having please." He nodded to the waitress. "And a cup of tea." Pulling out a seat, he searched her face for potential bad news but Joanna seemed composed. "You said you had information?"

Laying down her fork, Joanna nodded. "I called my friend last night after you'd left," she said. "She's a nurse at Guys. We met at college and kept in touch as we were living close by each other here in London."

"And?" Greg paused as his steaming hot lunch was set in front of him.

"And I was right," Joanna sipped her own tea. "Trish came into nursing because first her dad died and then her mother developed a serious illness. She had to leave work for a while when her mum became too ill to look after herself properly and she said it was all a bit too much to have do the nursing and everything else as well, though because she had to leave work, there were all sorts of scary financial problems which meant she was over the moon when she found out her mother had won some sort of lottery where the first prize was three months' worth of financial advice and home help."

"Financial advice?" This didn't sound like something a cleaning company would do. "Not cleaning?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I thought," Joanna waved her fork. "But apparently, they were really good and sorted out all her mother's old annuity insurances and sickness benefits and tax relief and widow's pension and everything. Turns out Trish was able to manage things fairly well after that, especially having a weekly clean on top of everything else, not to mention having someone else to talk to about her problems gave her a bit of a break every now and again, as well as someone to help out when her mother eventually died."

"So Charmed Cleaning provided what was needed," he murmured thoughtfully, chewing a piece of beef.

"Yes, you could say that," Joanna nodded, pausing. "I have a thank-you present for you," she said, lifting the plastic bag onto the table.

Shaking his head, Greg smiled. "There's no need for any of that," he said. "It was fun being with your kids and got me out of my empty flat for a night, so if anything, I should be the one thanking you."

"I told Beth you'd say no, but she insisted we give you this for fixing our lock and for showing everyone how to make sure they use it properly and safely," Joanna widened her eyes, amused. "You cannot possibly offend my children by refusing," she added, pushing the bag closer to him. "It's home-made, if that makes you feel any better."

Tweaking an eyebrow, Greg threw her an expressive look as he pulled the plastic open. Inside was a piece of Joanna's pottery, a wide open bowl, tapering down to a smaller base. Superbly made and beautifully glazed in shades of grey finely laced with black, it was a stunning bit of earthenware.

"I can't take this," he protested. "This is worth a lot of money. You see these kind of things down the borough market for forty quid or more," he said, lifting and tilting the dish to catch the light. It was a solid but elegant piece.

"It's for your kitchen table to put fruit in. Or potatoes, or whatever else you keep on your kitchen table," Joanna smiled, clearly pleased by his reaction. "Seriously, you'd be doing me a favour by taking it. I need the room for new pieces."

"That kiln of yours has to chewing up the electricity though," he said, holding the bowl admiringly. "You shouldn't be wasting your money on gifts like this."

"Well, _actually_ ..." Joanna looked at him carefully. "I checked the power usage the first time I fired a batch of pots and the electricity consumption is very low. Really, very low. Negligible, almost."

He always heard the _almosts_.

"How low?" His copper's intuition sat up straight.

"No more than a standard lightbulb," Joanna shrugged. "What can I say? It's a magic kiln."

"There seems to be a lot if it going around at the moment," he sighed, returning to his lunch, chewing reflectively. "My friends got a singing home help who somehow managed to help a sick woman and her baby. Your friend got help with financial arrangements and you and I got a magical house-clean. Why? _Why us?_ Why did we get something different than the others?"

"It's like you just said," Joanna finished her tea. "The company provided what was needed. Clearly, what you and I both needed was a clean place to live," she frowned at the idea. "I'm not sure I'm entirely happy with that judgement to be honest."

"Yeah, but we didn't exactly get an _ordinary_ kind of cleaning, did we?" Greg rested his arms on the table. "Yes, our places were cleaned, but there was something else, something extra, wasn't there? You got your little dream studio and I got the office I'd been after for years. I still have no idea how any of this hangs together, or how it was done or even why, but you have to admit, it seems we all got something we very much wanted or, in the case of my mucky kitchen, desperately needed," he grinned briefly. "It was in a pretty bad way before, I have to admit. My work-life balance is about ninety-ten."

"Well it's hardly surprising given the number of hours all you investigations people work," Joanna linked her fingers and met his gaze with calm eyes. "Without speaking out of turn, I can tell you that someone from the fourth floor having a well-balanced life would be the exception rather than the rule, not that I can really talk," she matched his brief smile. "I have to be there as much as I can for the children, but I can't afford to drop my hours because they tear through shoes and clothes at a rate of knots. All three of them are growing faster than I can keep up. I blink and Beth's up another inch."

"Why don't you try selling some of your pottery?" Greg asked quietly. "If your other stuff is half as good as this," he patted the plastic bag beside him. "You'd make a killing at the markets. Or even online. Set up a little website. You could do everything by mail, if you wanted. Get some decent photos up or maybe even a little video about each piece, I swear you'd have a ton of orders."

Shaking her head, Joanna made a face. "Maybe. Perhaps somewhere down the line," she said. "Not that I'd know about the prices or anything, apart from what the clay costs, and the glazes aren't that much. I don't even have a computer. Beth's using my husband's old tablet for school but I wouldn't have a clue about setting up a website. Or organising the payment side of things. Steven handled all the technical things," shaking her head again, Joanna checked her watch, getting ready to walk back to the office. "I wanted to give you this as well," she said, digging a small slip of paper out of her pocket. There was a phone number on it. "In case you find out anything more and we're too busy to talk during work hours."

Taking the paper, Greg also stood, wondering why she was so adamantly against the idea, at the same time as realising he had to get back to work too. "I'll get you some info about sole trading," he offered as they headed for the door. "It's about as easy a set-up as you can get." He patted the bag with its precious contents. "Seriously, you should think about it."

###

There was a shelf-full of used laptops and computers in a big cabinet in the evidence room. Once a year the criminal exhibits services put all confiscated items, be it a Lamborghini or a lawnmower, up for sale to the public. There were always a few things that nobody wanted and the handful of old computers Greg was now examining fell into that category. None of them were current though nowhere near as ancient as his own venerable beast.

"How much for this one, Rob?" He held up an ASUS. The outer casing was scratched and scraped but the inside looked untouched. "And what's under the bonnet?"

"What's the sticker number?" Senior Constable Rob Harris was more comfortable dealing with the aftermath of crimes than meeting it on the streets. He enjoyed the minutia of evidentiary administration, as well as curating new items into the Black Museum whenever possible.

"471."

"ASUS Vivobook Intel Celeron, two-point-four gigahertz turbo processor, two gig of RAM, 32 gig storage, wiped and reloaded with Windows Ten. That the one?" Harris looked up from his computer screen. "Thirty quid."

"It's for one of us," Greg added.

"Then let's make it ten quid." Rob's heavy black spectacles appeared around the door of the cabinet before he did. "Someone trying out some dodgy software?"

"Nah. A friend upstairs needs a cheap laptop to set up a webpage," Greg peeled off the sticker, handing it to his friend. "I thought I'd have a look and see if there was anything down here. This should do nicely," he added, digging out his wallet.

"And you're gonna show them how it works?" Rob's eyebrows edged upwards. He walked away with the money, laughing.


	5. Curiouser and curiouser

At least doing this gave him a reason to try out his new office. Greg set the ASUS next to his own archaic device. Opening the HP, his eyes were drawn to the little battery icon at the bottom. Unbelievably, it still had a full charge. Frowning and shaking his head at yet another inexplicable event, Greg hunted around for his old power cable. If his laptop had been left in here then the cable should be around somewhere. He wanted to see if it would power up the ASUS he'd found for Joanna. It was getting dark in the room, so he switched on the snazzy desk lamp, bathing everything in a clear warm light. He bent down to see where the lamp was plugged in, in case there were electric sockets he'd not noticed before.

The lamp wasn't plugged in anywhere.

Turning it off and back on again, Greg knew he'd have to investigate that little bit of information at some point but for now, he was willing to go with the flow. It was either that or go mad. As an afterthought, he took his phone from his pocket, made a note of the 67% charge and laid it on the top of the desk. He wanted to check there was no problem with the ASUS before he handed it over, as he wasn't sure how much Joanna would know about running different applications, though he could easily check what was already loaded. If needs be, he could download any stuff she might want in addition to the website design page wizard he planned to find for her. He was certain that, once she'd engaged with the idea of selling her pots, she'd be brilliant at it. He didn't stop to examine why he felt this, he simply did. And if there was nobody else to help her see this, then he would. He had no idea why he was doing this either: it was just something he saw that needed doing.

If Joanna couldn't be persuaded to do something with her talent, it would be everyone's loss. The wide pottery bowl she'd given him sat in pride of place in his kitchen; the elegant curve of the thing straight out of a designer's gallery. It would be a shame to leave it empty: he'd have to buy, and eat, more fruit.

Fortunately, the ASUS also held a full charge, so at least he could run a few basic diagnostics before he had to go out and find a power cord. As Rob had said, it had Windows, but he wasn't sure what kind of internet connection the Foy's had, if indeed they even had one. Frowning, he knew he'd have to check. In the meantime, he'd look for any updates and unwanted apps, and see what free anti-virus software he could get. What he really wanted to find was a free website design and small business package. It took him nearly an hour but by then, everything was as good as he was able to get it without lashing out on the expensive stuff. It felt important that he did this. That he might, in some small way, be responsible for making the Foy's lives a little better, was a good thing to be spending his time on. Not that he had much else to do except watch the TV. Although ...

Turning to his own computer, his grin took on a slightly manic edge when he saw the battery charge still read full. Lifting his phone, he saw that there too, the charge was now full. Trying not to think too hard about what that might mean, he opened up his music library and scrolled down to one of the files where he kept his collection of film soundtracks. What he really needed now was a burnable CD, though he wasn't sure he had any left, let alone find them. About to go hunting, he automatically reached for the top drawer in his new desk. As it opened, he inhaled sharply through his nose.

A single blank CD in a clear plastic case looked back up at him. Greg had no earthly idea where it had come from; it certainly hadn't been there the previous night. _Fuck_. He was starting to feel really glad that someone as level-headed as Joanna Foy had been on the receiving end of a similar experience or he'd swear he was losing it. Taking another deep breath, he inserted the CD into his laptop and downloaded as much music from famous science fiction films as he could fit. He knew there was at least one other person on the planet who might enjoy it apart than him. Greg smiled as he thought about Max and Jack. Good lads, the pair of them. Such a shame about their dad.

He checked his watch. It was just after seven. He chewed the inside of his lip. Would two nights in a row be over the top? Normally, he'd never consider bothering someone like Joanna again so soon, although the situation wasn't exactly what you might call _normal_. Without realising he'd done so, he dialled the number she'd given him. It was only when he heard the ring tone that he stopped to wonder what the hell he was doing. The woman would probably think he was stalking her. He was about to hit the _end call_ button when Joanna answered.

" _Greg?_ Hi. Is that you?"

 _Shit_. "Hi, er, Joanna. Look, I've got an old laptop I'd like you to have. I've checked it out and it runs fine and it's got the basic stuff that you'll need to set up your own website. It's all pretty straightforward really. If you want it, that is, of course." He heard himself babbling and felt flustered. "I wanted to say my own thank you. Just knowing I'm not the only one in this insane situation is actually a huge relief, so I just wanted to let you know that I appreciate the mutual support. _Er_. That was it, really. Do you have an internet connection at your place? Would you like a laptop?"

There was a pause.

"We've got a Post Office broadband connection and I would love to borrow your laptop, although ..."

"What?"

"Apart from managing the reporting systems at work, I've never had my own computer to use."

"And?"

"And I'm not sure I'd be any good at using it," Joanna sounded hesitant. "My husband set everything up for his own laptop and I was always more interested in gardening, to be honest."

"Well at some point, you're going to need to know how to solve some basic computer issues for when the boys go to secondary school. I'm surprised they haven't got onto you about it already."

"Beth started at the City of London Academy last year and they've got some really good IT teachers there, but the boys are still at primary school and it's not quite so pressing yet, but I take your point." Sounding increasingly uncertain, Joanna fell silent.

"Look ... I could show you the basics, if you like," Greg didn't want to sound insistent but the feeling that this was the right thing to do drove him on. "I'm no expert, but I know my way around a laptop as well as most. I just wouldn't want you to feel that I was being too pushy."

"Pushy?"

Puffing out his cheeks as he exhaled, Greg wondered how things got so complicated. He tried again. "I don't want you to feel that I was in any way intruding, I guess," he said. "You don't have to keep the laptop if you don't want to but maybe Jack could use it when he goes up to the big school ... though the main reason is absolutely to get you to put your pottery online. If you want to tell me to sod off and mind my own, I'll leave the computer for you at work and we'll say no more about any of this. If ... that's what you'd prefer?" He couldn't possibly be any more upfront than that, could he?

"I just hate to feel I'm imposing on your good nature," Joanna sounded completely genuine. "Steven was always the one to take care of anything technical, so I feel utterly useless in that area. You've already helped us out with the front door lock, and you were so thoughtful with the children ... I simply don't want you to think that I'm taking advantage of all your kindness. I'd hate you to imagine that, I really would."

A small wave of relief washed through him. It wasn't him who was the nice one.

"I promise you'd not be taking advantage," Greg laughed down the phone. "I thought the boot might be on the other foot to be truthful: I didn't want you to think that I was being too pushy in trying to help. I wouldn't want you to think that."

"So you're okay with helping me and the children out with a few things?"

"And you're okay with me offering to help?"

There was a small pause. "As long as you promise not to think me an idiot because I don't know how to use a computer very well," Joanna sounded reassured.

"I promise. Though I might appreciate a cup of tea every now and again. The way you make them is perfect."

Laughter echoed across the ether. "I can do that," she said. "Are you busy now?"

"I was just sitting here wondering if offering to drive down to your place two nights on the trot might make you feel uncomfortable."

"It's just that both Jack and Max are sitting here asking me when you're coming down again. I think they enjoyed all the police talk."

"Put the kettle on then," Greg pocketed the CD. "I'll be there in ten."

###

"So then you click on this ..." Beth sat in front of the ASUS, showing both adults how to set up a basic webpage. "And now you have your own domain name," she said. "Though I still think 'River Pots' is pretty rubbish."

"But your mum's stuff is classy," Greg watched the child's deft fingers guide the mouse with certainty. "That's a simple, classy name," Greg leaned back looking satisfied. For a tenner a month with the first month free, Joanna now had a basic webpage to market her pottery. Thank goodness they taught this kind of thing in school these days as his IT knowledge turned out to be even more basic than the webpage wizard.

"You need to make it interactive now," Beth turned to look at her mother. "It's what all the good websites are doing."

"Interactive?" Joanna turned to Greg to see if he were any more enlightened. "You mean things that people can do things with?"

"Yes. Like videos of your pottery from different angles and a magnifying tool so they can look at bits more closely. You'll also need to have a payment facility and you need to have a bio with a photo of you in a floaty dress holding a pot so people know who you are."

Trading glances, the two adults in the room realised they were a little out of their depth.

"How old are you again?" Greg nudged the child gently on the shoulder. "You know more about this stuff than the both of us. Do you learn all this at school?"

Rolling her twelve-year old eyes like a pro, Beth sighed heavily at the ineptitude of the elderly. "Yes, of course we do. Besides," she announced confidently. "I plan on working in IT when I leave university."

Sounds of the Imperial March echoed out through the room as Jack decided he'd had enough of low volume, interrupting Greg's response.

"Down a bit, Jack please. Or use the headphones." Joanna called over her shoulder. "Bedtime soon."

Max was already on his way to be by the time Greg had arrived, the youngest Foy exhausted by a full day at school. Jack refused to go until he'd listened to the entire CD, his little face intense as he happily connected the music to his favourite film characters while colouring in a poster of the Death Star.

"You should also put some music on here too, Mum." Beth sounded entirely serious. "Something nice."

"I can see the sense behind that," Joanna nodded thoughtfully. "It's the same when you go into a really upmarket shop; there's cello or piano music playing in the background. Excellent idea, Number One child," she said, patting her daughter on the head.

"I've got tons of music, all kinds of music," Greg offered. "Why don't we see if we can do a quick video of one of your pots and put it on the website? You can always take it off and redo it if it's no good. Gotta start somewhere."

"Then it should be a video of a pot turning on a wheel," Joanna said carefully. "Against a dark background, but with a spotlight shining on the piece as it turns, so people can see all the details."

"No time like the present." Greg grinned. Far from feeling as though he was imposing, he realised he'd been sucked into a different kind of adventure from the moment he'd arrived with the laptop which Beth had immediately commandeered. And thank god she had. "Got a torch?"

###

For a bit of a bodge-job, the end result looked impressive, Greg felt pleased as they watched the thirty-seconds of video he'd recorded on his mobile.

Joanna had found an old remnant of purple velvet which she'd draped over her potter's wheel to hide everything. The choice of pot had been left to Beth, since she was turning out to be a natural designer, not to mention a bang up webmaster.

"That one," the child pointed to a big two-handled urn with a dark blue body glaze and rich bronze veins flowing artfully from top to bottom. "It looks important."

Reaching up with both hands, Greg whistled at the weight of the thing. "This will cost a bundle to post when it sells," he said, positioning the pot in the exact centre of the velvet-covered wheel.

" _When_ it sells," Joanna scoffed. "I doubt postage will be an issue in that case."

Ignoring her mother's self-deprecation, Beth took the torch and switched it on, pointed at Exhibit A. Greg pulled out his phone, opening the video function.

"What's the slowest speed that thing will go?" he positioned himself far enough away so that he got as much of the purple velvet in the image without losing any of the pot's details.

"I've got a foot pedal down here," Joanna pointed. "I can make it go as slow as I want."

"How about dead slow?"

"Dead slow is possible," Joanna smiled.

"Alright then ladies. What say we give this production a whirl?" Greg flicked off the big overhead light, and smiled, pleased, as an ambient streetlight glow came in from the skylight above them. The glow plus Beth's focused torch lent the whole scene an ethereal mood.

"And ... _action_ ," he grinned. As soon as the wheel started turning, he began the recording allowing two complete revolutions at normal focus, then closing in on a variety of details for two more turns, before backing out for the final revolution. At the end of five complete revolutions, he stopped recording. "Now we get to see what it looks like for real," he said, handing his phone over to Beth as she marched straight back to the ASUS.

"They've got a looping app you can use on here, Mum," she said, clicking through a convoluted series of menu items. Opening the WiFi connection, Greg's little video was soon saved to an empty drive and, from there, to a box in the middle of the new webpage. Inside a minute, the video was looped and running.

"Oh ... my goodness." Joanna pressed a hand to her mouth. "It looks ..."

"Yeah, it does." Greg watched, entranced, as the image of the dark blue urn revolved slowly and smoothly on the screen, lit with a subtle glow from above and a more brilliant light from one side. As the pot revolved, you could see how even and symmetrical it was and how rich and deep were the glazed colours.

"Told you it was easy." Beth sat back and folded her arms, incredibly smug.

"That's fantastic, Beth," Joanna breathed. "You've made it look perfectly beautiful for me. Thank you sweetheart, it's lovely."

"I've also put a hit counter and a comments box down the bottom of the page so you can see how many views you get," the child yawned suddenly. "It still needs work though."

"But not tonight," Joanna looked at her watch. "You aren't going to want to get up for school tomorrow if you don't go to sleep right this second," she said, kissing her daughter soundly on the top of her head. "Off to bed, you."

Greg was still watching the big blue pot going round and around in an endless revolving loop as Joanna set a mug of tea down in front of him.

"It's really quite ..." she paused, turning slowly to look at him.

"Magical?" Greg met her gaze steadily. "Yeah," he nodded. "It is."

"I had no idea how clever Beth had become with this stuff," Joanna sank into the seat beside his, shaking her head. "Never in a thousand years would I be able to have done half of what she managed tonight," she arched her eyebrows and sighed a little. "And of course, none of this would have happened at all without you bringing us that laptop and the webpage design program. I only hope that it's all been worthwhile. If nobody comes to look at the page, Beth's going to be awfully disappointed."

Arching his eyebrows, Greg said nothing, simply pointing to the small view-counter at the bottom of the page. It read '3'. "One of those may be us," he said. "But not all three. You've already got visitors," he grinned, pleased.

A look of mild horror crossing her face, Joanna sat down quickly. "Oh god. What if they hate my pots?" she sounded strained. "What if someone wants to buy one? What should I do? What _do_ I do?"

"Okay, calm down a bit," Greg couldn't help but smile at her flash of panic. "First, nobody's going to hate them because they're bloody lovely, even if you can't see that," he said. "Second, if someone wants to know how much a pot costs, then you tell them and give them a way to pay you and then you send them the pot. It's not a difficult process really."

"But how much should I ask if someone wants that one?" Joanna nodded to the revolving blue pot on the screen "I have no idea what I could sell it for, truly, I haven't a clue."

Reaching for the notepad and pen he'd used the previous night, Greg started writing.

"Right then," he said. "How much did the clay and all those fancy glazes cost? And what about the electricity? And how many hours did it take you to make? And design?"

Joanna blinked and muttered numbers, Greg dutifully wrote them down. "How heavy is it?" he asked. "Got some scales anywhere?" The blue pot was carefully weighed, coming in at just under three kilos. In a second, Greg had opened the post office website and clicked on parcel post calculations.

"Here you go," he said. "Guaranteed twenty-four hour delivery, registered post with inbuilt insurance of £300 in case of loss or damage. It's even got a tracking number." Smiling triumphantly, Greg added another thirty to the list of figures on the paper. Even with everything added in together, the total was a little under sixty pounds. How much is your time worth an hour?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. "No, don't bother giving me a figure 'cos it won't be enough," he said, adding in an hourly rate of £60. The total was starting to look more promising. "Still not quite there," Greg mused, tapping his nose with the pen. "Okay, now we add in creative costs."

"Creative costs?" Joanna whispered, dismayed, as she watched the total add up. It was now nearly £200. "Nobody will pay that kind of money for one of my pots," she said, shaking her head. "Not even half that amount."

Saying nothing, Greg pointed once again to the visit-counter. It now read '6'.

"Don't forget this is London," he said. "And people will pay a premium for things that are unique and beautiful," he nodded at the still-revolving pot on the screen. "And that ticks both boxes."

A brief warbling chime came from the laptop's speaker.

"What's that?" Joanna looked frazzled: had something stopped working?

"It's a message," Greg could hardly keep the elation from his face as he turned the ASUS more directly towards Joanne. "For you, I believe."

There was indeed a message.

_Fantastic urn. Is it influenced by Etruscan? How tall is it? Is it for sale? How much delivered to S. Kensington or we could come and collect if more convenient. Look forward to hearing from you. Toodles._

"No." Joanna sounded as if all the wind had been taken from her sails. "No. It's not possible."

"They had to leave their email when they posted the message," Greg reasoned, pointing to the screen. "And with a Kensington location, I'd think it would be on the up and up." His grin could not be restrained as he checked his watch. "Webpage up for only what, a half-hour and you've already got a potential sale on your hands." Folding his arms, he looked as smug as Beth. "I think River Pots is looking good," he added. "Even if you only sell this one, you've already paid for the website for a whole year, as well as all your clay, unless you get really busy, of course."

"It's simply nonsensical," Joanna shook her head, an expression of utter disbelief on her face.

"It is possible and I told you it would be." Greg spoke more gently, he knew what shock looked like. "Next question is, do you want to sell this thing? If you've got an offer this soon, don't be surprised if you get more. Do you want to wait until you've got the website properly set up before you start selling?"

"How do I organise the financial side of things? People would want to be able to pay online. I don't know what to do about any of this." Lifting her eyes to his, there was an echo of panic in her tone.

"Then I suggest you leave this all for now and have a chat with your tech-savvy youngster in the morning. I'm sure Beth will have ideas on that score."

"You mean, just leave this as it is until tomorrow? I should let those people know that we've only starting developing the webpage. It would be rude not to reply to them."

"Well, you could tell them you're just setting up and it'll be a day or so before it's fully operational. If they're genuine buyers, they won't mind waiting a day."

Nodding, Joanna's shoulders relaxed at the realisation she didn't have to rush into anything quite so immediately. "I'll need to video more pots," she looked anguished again.

"Do you have any alcohol in the house?" Greg laughed. "You sound like you could do with a glass of something."

"Excellent idea," Joanna's focus returned in at the idea there was something simple to do. "I have an opened bottle of Shiraz," she said. "Fancy celebrating?"

###

He'd just returned to his office after chairing an inter-team CID briefing which had gone on longer than he'd expected. There had been significant and gratifying movement in several major cases, including the apprehension and arrest of the cleaner in the Charles Romsford murder investigation.

"I understand this came about due to some top level thinking Greg?" The Superintendent was all smiles afterwards in the now-empty meeting room. "Good to see you getting back into the thick of things."

Greg wasn't aware he'd ever left them but then, thinking back, maybe he had a bit. It had all gone grey and cloudy around him for a while, possibly quite a long while if the Super had noticed.

"Yes sir." Greg nodded. "Sorting out a few personal issues," he made an effort to sound positive.

"And have they been sorted satisfactorily, Greg?" the Superintendent's tone was unusually light. It hadn't been a secret that Angela had left him for another man, not that the event itself was a terribly unique occurrence: divorce in one way or another ended an unfortunate number of police marriages.

"I'd say so, sir." Greg squared his shoulders. "Life goes on."

"Good man." The senior officer clapped him on the back. "Heard you'd been up to the counselling people recently. It takes moral courage to seek help and you're an excellent example for some of our younger officers. Good to have you back up to strength. Your people need you."

Maintaining a straight face until he was alone, Greg pressed both hands to his face. _Christ Almighty_. He'd only been upstairs the once, though maybe someone had seen him and Joanna the other day at lunch. He shook his head and exhaled hard. Bunch of sodding effing gossips around here. Ah well. _C'est la vie_ and all that. Inhaling sharply, Greg lifted his head and straightened his back. What he'd said to the Super had been dead on. He _was_ sorting things out, maybe not all at once, but he felt as though things were moving slowly towards the better and it'd be wrong to pretend otherwise.

The phone in his pocket rang. Glancing, he saw it was Joanna's number. Smiling as he opened the call, he wondered if she was still as worried about selling her pots as she had been the previous night.

"Greg, I'm dreadfully sorry to bother you during working hours, but there's a problem at Beth's school."

Adrenaline flooding through his body, his mind raced through various awful scenarios. "Is she safe? Is she hurt?"

"Apparently, there was some kind of a confrontation and she's locked herself in a metalwork room." Joanna kept her voice low and steady though he could tell it was an effort. "I'm at the school now, but she won't speak to me, she insists on speaking to you, something to do with a comment you made when you fixed the lock. I know you're going to be too busy, but I promised her I'd ask. Is there any way you can come and talk to her?"

"At the academy in Bermondsey?" Greg check his watch. It was a little before three in the afternoon. At this time of day, traffic across the river would be heavy; any normal run from the Embankment would need to go round the Elephant and Castle and road congestion was always sticky there. Fortunately, it didn't need to be a normal run. "I can get there in ten minutes if I use the siren," he said, already striding back to his small office for his coat. "Tell Beth I'm on my way."


	6. In the Name of The Law

It was only when he got to Lambeth North that he actually had to flick the blue lights and touch the siren, just to get him out of Lambeth and past Tower Bridge Road. By the time he'd reached the Old Kent Road, his watch ticked into the twelfth minute since he'd ended the call with Joanna. Greg wasn't entirely sure what he was supposed to do when he got to the school, but the thought of young Beth in such a state that she'd feel the need to blockade herself into a classroom told him it was something more than a pubescent tantrum. Even though he'd only known the child for a few days, he would be prepared to vouch for her being the sensible one in any testing situation.

Pulling his BMW into an empty staff spot in front of the school, Greg marched to the reception office at the main entrance.

"Police," he identified himself with his warrant card. "Which way to the metalwork rooms?"

"Inspector Lestrade?" A small, craggy woman with greying hair and a frazzled expression looked thankful. "I'm Aggie Watson, the Deputy Head. We've been expecting you. This way, if you please." Leading him through a warren of glassed-in corridors to the far side of the school, they ended up in a confined junction with a small group of people including Joanna Foy.

" _Greg_. Oh thank goodness." There was no doubting the profound relief in her voice. "Thank you so much for coming. Beth simply won't speak to anyone else." Joanna pointed to a door with a small glassed panel near the top, the glass sturdily laminated with wire mesh. The door looked as solid as a tank and twice as heavy. A safety door then, and not one to mess around with. Nobody would want to have to replace if there was an easier way of getting it open. Glancing around at the two other people, Greg paused at the expression of a tall thin man with weary eyes. If his people-sense was still on form, this man was the school's headmaster.

"Inspector Lestrade of the Met," he said, offering his hand. "I hear there's a bit of a situation."

"Bethany's normally very quiet and reserved," the man said after introducing himself as Jeffrey Arnold, Head of School. "There's never been a hint of anything like this in the eighteen-months she's been with us, not a hint," he shook his head unhappily. "I didn't want to force the issue if there was a less confrontational method," he added. "Your presence here is very much appreciated, Inspector. Mrs Foy says Beth seems to have established a rapport with you which is valuable. She's usually such a sensible child."

 _Of course Beth is a sensible child._ This made her actions here more than usually significant. Greg kept his thoughts to himself for the moment.

"Anything I should know?" he looked between Joanne and the Headmaster. "Before I try and speak with Beth. Anyone hurt? Threatened? Any property damage?"

"Nothing's been damaged that we know of," Arnold frowned.

"There was some sort of argument earlier between Beth and a couple of older girls, but there was no actual fighting or violent behaviour that we know of," Mrs Watson offered, concerned. "The other girls are waiting outside my office in case you wanted to speak with them."

"Right then," Greg looked around. "It might be best if everyone stepped outside while I speak with Beth alone," he said. "There's clearly a reason she wanted to speak with me and nobody else."

"Indeed," Arnold nodded and moved away down the corridor, ushering Joanna to join him. "I shall organise some tea for you. Mrs Foy," he added with a faint smile. "Nothing like a good cup of tea to settle things down. There may also be biscuits."

With a guilt-ridden backwards glance at Greg who nodded confidently, Joanna reluctantly allowed herself to be led away for tea and possibly biscuits. As soon as the coast was clear, Greg tapped on the glass.

" _Beth?_ This is Greg Lestrade. I understand there's something you wanted to talk to me about."

There was a moment's silence.

Inspector Greg?" Beth's quiet voice was close to the other side of the door. "Is that really you?"

"It's really me, sweetheart. Your mum said you were upset and wanted to speak with me. I'm here now. You want to let me in so we can have a chat?"

"I don't want anyone else coming in," Beth's voice wavered. It would be obvious to anyone she was upset.

"There's only me here, Beth, I made them all go away so we could talk in private. Want to let me open the door a bit?" There was another moment's pause before Greg heard something heavy being dragged away from the other side of the door. It took a while, so it was safe to assume it was heavy. It would have taken some effort to get it there in the first place and the last thing he wanted was for the girl to hurt herself.

"There's no rush," he said gently. "It's just you and me here. Take your time."

The sound of a heavy lock unfastening preceded the door opening a crack as Beth's brown eyes looked worriedly up at him. "Are you cross with me?"

It was painfully clear she was worried how he might feel. He smiled reassuringly. "I'm not in the least bit cross with anyone." Standing where he was, Greg relaxed, his hands in his pockets. "If you want me to stay out here while we talk, I don't mind. Whatever makes you feel okay."

"You can come in, in that case." The heavy door opened a few more inches, just enough for Greg to slip inside and close the door behind him. Moving slowly to avoid alarming the girl, he turned to look at her. Immediately a sharp frown creased his forehead. A bright red welt ran down the left side of her face with bruising already making itself apparent. Either she'd knocked her head against something, or ...

"Who hit you?" he asked, lowering himself to one knee, delicately moving the cascading hair away from her face with the tip of a finger. The entire side of Beth's cheek was red and slightly swollen. There was no obvious shape to the bruising yet but he'd be surprised if none appeared. Greg felt his mouth harden. Someone had given the child a right wallop. "Who hit you?" He asked again, his voice very soft.

"The other night, you said that sometimes you had to be clever to catch bad people and stop them from doing things." Beth met his gaze with a troubled expression.

"I did." Greg nodded. "And someone's doing bad things here, eh?" Greg quickly scanned every other visible part of the child's skin. Hands, knees ... Her fingers were a bit red but that could be from moving the heavy desk she'd dragged against the door. The Watson woman had said there'd been an argument of some kind. "You get into a fight with someone?" Greg allowed his face to soften. If there had been a scrap, the last thing Beth needed was him coming the heavy. He lifted her reddened knuckles for a closer inspection. "Did you hit someone after they hit you or was it the other way around?" he asked, his tone patient and understanding.

"There's these girls," Beth began hesitantly. "Three of them."

"In your class, are they?" Greg's eyes took in the rest of the child's disarray. A dangling button on her blazer, one missing from her white blouse. A ripped pocket. This wasn't just some schoolyard pushing around, this was intentional hurting. He reached unobtrusively for his phone.

"No, they're seniors," Beth's eyes grew suddenly huge with unshed tears. "They gang up on anyone who comes from a divorced family or ..." she paused. "Single parents." Her words tailed off to the merest whisper. "They know the kids don't usually have their dad at home, you see, and …"

Already knowing what Beth was going to say next, Greg forced himself to stay calm; He lifted the phone and captured the image he'd need later, even as he struggled to keep his shoulders from hunching in unexpected fury. His jaw clenched so hard it was almost impossible to speak casually, but he managed it somehow.

"Bullies, are they?" he asked, his thumb rubbed the back of Beth's hand. "Pick on the younger ones?" Nodding, Beth looked mortified. It was all Greg could do not to sweep her up and storm out of the room to demand severe and official retribution. He was not her father. He had no rights in this.

"I thought if they knew a policeman had come to school to talk to me, they'd leave me alone ... maybe some of the other kids too," Beth husked, her voice tightening in her throat as the tears began to spill. " _I'm sorry_... I didn't know anybody else ..."

"It's all right babe ..." Greg wasn't sure who he was trying to convince, the girl or himself, but when her little face crumbled in distress, he stopped thinking and opened his arms.

For all Beth was twelve, she felt very small plastered against his chest, her meagre frame heaving as she cried her heart out. _How long had she been a target of these bullies?_ Had Joanna no idea of this at all? _No_ , Greg realised. Of course she wouldn't; Beth would have said nothing to anyone. The child was trying so very hard to be grown up for her mother; she wouldn't have said anything. Holding her very lightly, Greg waited until the shuddering sobs became intermittent hiccups. He fished in his coat pocket for the ever-present white handkerchief he carried specifically for upset witnesses.

"It's going to be all right, Beth," he murmured as she wiped her eyes and face, her fingers clumsy with emotion. "I promise you nobody in this school is going to bully you anymore," he added gently. "You did exactly right by speaking to me and you've been very brave about the whole thing."

"I didn't know what else to do." Beth raised a blotched pink face as Greg regained his feet. "I didn't _know_ ..."

"You did exactly right," Greg reached for her unmarked hand, giving it a little squeeze. "Now I'm going to take you to your mum who's just down the corridor and she's going to take you straight home and make you a hot cup of tea. Then I'm going to have a little chat with Mr Arnold and that will be the end of things and you won't have to worry about any of this again. Alright?"

"I don't want there to be any bother." Beth sounded worried. "I don't want to get anyone in trouble; I just want it to ... _stop_."

Turning her to face him, Greg crouched down, his eyes serious and kind. "Now listen. There isn't going to be any bother," he said calmly. "And I promise you, this will stop, but for the minute, you have to go home and let your mum make a bit of a fuss over you, 'cos she's been worried too and looking after you will be her way of feeling better, okay? So you'll just have to let her make you tea and stuff and not complain about any of it."

Beth's smile was a little watery but it was there. "Mum likes to do that."

"I know she does, babe." Greg straightened up again. "Ready to go?"

Nodding, Beth held his hand a little tighter.

###

"I'd rather this not become an official police matter, Headmaster, but I'm entirely happy to make it so unless you guarantee here and now that immediate punitive action will be taken against the three students for their unacceptable actions."

"But children will bully at times," Jeffrey Arnold looked deeply troubled. "Unless we are able to catch them in the act, it's almost impossible to ..." he stopped as Greg held up his phone with the photo he'd taken of Beth. The incipient bruising and distressed expression on her face as well as the background of the metalwork room and the date stamp, all too clear.

"This is no longer bullying," Greg held his phone directly in front of the man's eyes. "This is assault and I'll have no compunction assisting the Foy's to lodge a formal complaint both with your school and the Department for Education which could very easily end up in court. We both know who the culprits are and, for their sakes as well as for Beth's and all the rest of the victims of their untenable behaviour, you need to take swift and visible action." Greg looked the man square in the eye. "Or I will," he added, his voice deliberate and icy.

Inhaling sharply at the image on the phone's screen, Arnold seemed momentarily lost for words. He nodded, once.

"This is not the first complaint to be raised, but it is the first that can be supported with evidence," he nodded again. "The girls must be stopped before they go too far and something irreparable happens." He nodded a third time. "I take it I am able to use your presence here today as well as the ... evidence?" he asked, waving at the screen.

"I'm more than happy to speak to the girl's parents if necessary." Greg slid the phone away. "I'll send you a copy of the photo," he added. "I do not want Beth Foy or her mother to be in any way singled out or stigmatised for being brave enough to seek help," he said. "If I hear of a single instance where anyone in the Foy household is targeted by anyone for whatever reason, I'll have the DFE in here faster than you can blink, and I will lay formal charges if I have to."

"Your point has been clearly made, Inspector." Jeffrey Arnold drew himself upright, his spine straight. "Bethany need fear no reprisals here, though if she would like to take a few days to compose herself …" the headmaster raised his eyebrows in question.

"I'm going to see the family now to make sure that Beth isn't suffering from a delayed reaction of any kind and _if_ ," Greg's expression became severe. " _If_ that child needs medical assistance in any shape or form, I shall ensure the bills are sent to you personally. Just so you know."

Breathing heavily, the headmaster nodded. "Please ensure that whatever is necessary is done," he said. "As will I."

Greg watched as the headmaster set his shoulders and walked off along the corridor that apparently led to the senior administrative offices. He'd have several unpleasant phone calls to make and Greg didn't envy the man, even though such things went with the job. He glanced down at his watch. It was already well after four and he really wanted to call in at the Foy house before he returned to work. Quickly, he rang Donovan.

"What's up, Boss?" His sergeant's voice was unruffled. "Heard you had to dash off for something."

"Nothing major, but I want to check up on someone before I get back. Are things quiet on the Western front?"

"Yep," Sally Donovan sounded as if she were looking around the main investigations office. "Nothing critical happening here right now, though I've got a nice fat pile of case updates for you to review when you get back."

"Would they hold until tomorrow?" Greg had an idea. It wouldn't hurt to see if it worked out. If not, he could always head back to the office for an hour.

"Don't see why not," Donovan sounded perfectly accepting. "As long as you can get through them all before the joint team briefing at eleven."

"Are there many?" Greg didn't mind the paperwork so much as he hated stuff that wasted his time. He usually trusted Sally to weed the chaff from the wheat.

"Nothing you shouldn't be able to wade through," Sally laughed. "Go on. Bugger off and do whatever needs doing. I'll cover for you unless something really critical comes in."

"You're a doll, Sal." With a small grin of satisfaction, Greg strode back to his parked BMW and headed for the river.

###

Joanna had opened the front door of the house even before he'd got out of the car.

"How is she?" Greg raised his eyebrows.

"Calmer," Joanna shook her head. "I'm the one who seems to be doing the suffering now," she said. "I'll never forgive myself for not seeing any of this."

"Beth keeps things close to her chest," Greg smiled. "And you've done nothing wrong. Unfortunately, these things happen when kids get together. Just be glad we all found out while there was still time to stop it getting any worse."

"Still, I'm supposed to be the one who _sees_ these things," Joanna's expression was stricken. "My own _daughter_."

"Parents are usually the last to find out about this kind of thing if that makes you feel any more comfortable." Greg patted her shoulder. "Anyway, I come bearing a brilliant idea," he said smugly.

"Which is?" Joanna wasn't sure she could handle any more surprises.

"Your lot had their dinner yet?" Greg checked his watch. "Nah, of course they won't, it's not yet five," he said. "Perfect timing, in fact."

"Perfect timing for what?" Joanna frowned. "More work on the website?"

" _Nah_. Better n' that, as long as you're okay with it," Greg's grin grew wider as Joanna looked momentarily mystified, then shrugged and nodded. Max and Jack were standing in the doorway in their socks. He pointed a finger at them.

"Oy, you two, Get your shoes on and tell your sister to stir her stumps and I'm waiting for everyone in the car."

"Are we going somewhere?" Jack looked wide-eyed.

" _Are_ we going somewhere?" Joanna folded her arms.

"Go on, go and get your sister," Greg waved the boys back into the house. "Thought it might break the tension a bit if we all went out for a pizza or something," Greg waved as the curtain in the front bedroom twitched. "I'm assuming Beth's been a bit quiet since she came home?"

"Yes. She let me to make her some tea but then she said she was tired and wanted a lie-down. I was just about to go and have a chat with her when you arrived."

"Right. Go and tell her that I'm waiting for everyone in the car. Better get your coat on an' all," he laughed, pulling open the driver's side door. "Tell them it's pizza," he called after her.

###

"We've never been here before," Joanna looked around the converted warehouse that was _Café Amisha_ on the corner of Grange Road. "Though I always wondered what it might be like." Joanna let the boys scamper on inside as she held Beth's hand.

" _Capitano! Benvenuto!"_ A lanky dark-haired man swept around the bar to welcome them in. It was still on the early side for the usual dinner crowd and there were plenty of long empty tables scattered about the polished concrete floor. "It has been too long since you have been here with us!" The Italian was taller than Greg and wrapped the older man in a big bear hug that squashed the air from his lungs.

"Marco, I'd like you to meet Joanna, and this is Jack and Max and the young lady over there is Beth." Greg grunted once he'd started breathing again. "We've come to try some of your famous creative pizzas if it's not too early?"

"It is never too early for you, Capitano," the tall man looked between Greg and Joanna before turning a dark sombre gaze on the children. "But this matter of making pizza is a very serious," he said, arching an eyebrow and nodding gravely as he regarded the boys. "The very best pizza only comes from much thought. Come," he beckoned, walking across to a long shining steel counter.

"First you musta decide on how hungry you are feeling." Marco inspected all three children carefully. "I can see you are all empty and should all have this a size," he spun, pointing to a medium-sized metal plate with a good wide handle on one side, giving one to each child from the top of a stack. Sharing a look, Greg and Joanna selected their own plates.

"And now we must consider the type of base you want on your very own personalised pizza," Marco pointed to a range of options. "Chewy, crunchy, cheesy, with garlic …" he looked at the captivated faces of the boys and Beth's slightly sceptical expression. "For you two, I think chewy and cheesy, yes? And for the _signorina_ , hmm …" Marco, evidently a great loss to Italian theatre, looked at Beth and tapped his chin as he thought. "Something with elegance and charm, yes? Do you enjoy the fragrance of sweet basil and oregano? _Si?_ Then you must have the _Fantastica_ ," he waved a flamboyant flourish at a delicate, herb-strewn base.

"I think we can take it from here, Marco," Greg noticed Joanna's wide-eyed silence as she struggled not to laugh, and laughed himself. "But thank you for the tour. If anyone gets stuck we know where to get help."

"Simply call my name and I shall be here for you." Bowing, the tall Italian made his way back around the extensive counter to the bar.

"What do we do now?" Jack was staring across the counter, his eyes wide with longing at all the interesting and impressive amounts of food.

"What we do now is put the base we want and the size we want onto our plates," Greg demonstrated with a pair of plastic tongs, selecting a big fat cheesy base with garlic. "Then we walk down the counter, putting whatever else we want and however much we want, onto our pizza base. When we get to the end, we give our plate to the chef and he cooks it for us and brings it out to our table. Everyone okay with that?"

"I can't see anything." Max sounded sad. "How can I choose if I can't see?"

Glancing at Joanna for permission, Greg bent down and picked the child up, balancing him against his chest. "Here you go, Max," he said, taking the child's plate and his own and putting them both on a tray, sliding it along the counter as they went. "Right. Us two are taking care of ourselves. Does anyone else need Marco back for some more instruction?"

"I think Marco has done more than enough for the evening," Joanna grinned down at Beth who smiled back. "Are you all right by yourself, Number One Son?"

Already half way down the counter, number one son was fiercely debating the merits of pineapple versus slices of salted pear, deciding to have both as he turned to look at the several different platters of mushrooms and brightly coloured peppers. "I'm fine, Mum."

Max was clearly more of a purist; Greg realised as the child wanted only yellow things for his pizza and was doing his best to find a yellow mushroom. Both Joanna and Beth had opted for Marco's celebrated Fantastica and were pointing out different exotic toppings to each other. Greg smiled to himself. It was fairly obvious the Foys wouldn't be able to get out much and this seemed a helpful way of killing multiple birds with one dinner. While trying to keep Max from piling on every yellow cheese in sight, Greg kept a quiet eye on Beth who was sounding increasingly like her usual self. With a bit of luck, the normality of the situation would help ease any residual anxiety.

Eventually, everyone presented their personalised creation to the chef near the long oven, and watched as he slid each plate inside with a practiced flick of the wrist. Jack was all for watching his pizza cook as it travelled along the conveyer belt inside the glass-fronted oven, but after Greg refused to take any money in part-payment, Joanna was busy organising drinks for everyone at the table Beth had chosen.

Sliding in on a long padded bench seat beside the boys, Greg looked across the table at Joanna and her daughter. Both were smiling at some comment and Greg felt his insides relax. Sorting out the problem at Beth's school had been one thing but sorting out Beth's feelings might be another issue altogether.

Selecting drinks demanded another serious discussion with Beth telling her mother she simply _had_ to try the Passionfruit Stinger while Jack naturally opted for a BlackJack of raspberry ice cream and blackcurrant juice. Greg fancied a beer but settled for mineral water. No sooner had the drinks arrived than a waiter with a long plank-like tray appeared out of nowhere with all their pizzas. Sliding them onto a china plate in front of each respective owner, the table wafted with scent of sizzling cheese and onion and basil. All three children set to eating their creation in whatever way suited their temperaments. Greg sat, relaxed and pleased. He looked across the table.

Joanna raised her eyes to his at the same moment and smiled and Greg wondered how he could ever have thought her mousey in the least particle. Her smile was warm and wide and she too was as relaxed as he'd ever seen her. Her new-found comfort made him feel even more pleased with himself. He raised his glass.

"To pizza."

###

"This is very serious, you know." Beth looked at the two adults with a slight frown. "You just can't jump into something like this without knowing exactly what you want to happen at the end."

"Well, you know what your mum wants," Greg shrugged, setting his hands on the dining table.

"Do you know?" Beth fixed her mother with a sharp, critical eye.

"Just the, er, usual things," Joanna tried and failed to look knowledgeable.

"So just some more videos of your pots going around in circles and a place for people to send you money and maybe some space for you to write things about the clay that you use and stuff?" Beth wasn't even blinking. Greg decided then and there never to play her at poker.

"I think ... _ah_ , I think that would be fine. What do you think?"

As Joanna turned to face him, Greg raised his hands defensively, shaking his head adamantly as Beth turned her basilisk stare on him. "I'm the outsider here. I don't get a vote on your mum's new website."

"Of course you do, it was your idea," Joanna rolled her eyes. "Tell Beth what you think customers might like to see. I would value your opinion."

"Well, have you decided whether to sell those people that blue pot of yours? If you want to, we could use it as a test case and see what we need to make the arrangement happen. How does that sound?"

" _Finally_ ," Beth sighed. "Then this is what you need …"


	7. The Next Step

It had taken the entire weekend, but it was ready to go.

"Are you quite sure that everything's saved?" Joanna sat in front of the ASUS, her finger poised over the _Enter_ key. "I'm not going to delete anything, am I?"

"God, _Mum_ ," Beth grabbed her mother's finger and jabbed it down onto the keyboard. "Right, now everything is live and happening in real time," Beth sat back in her chair. "This means you need to monitor the website on a regular basis, even if it's only once a day to see if you've got any more messages or sales. If you want to change your selling structure to a bidding system rather than a flat price, we can do that, but only with new pots as you add them onto the page, okay? If all your pots sell really quickly, it means you're not asking enough and we should try the bidding facility on some of them to see what sort of end-price you get; you understand how it's done?"

"I think so," Joanna nodded. "So all these," she waved at the six current images of different pots and vases they'd managed to video and load onto the River Pots website. "Are being sold at the price you've put beneath each one ..." She shook her head. "I still cannot believe anyone would be willing to part with even _that_ much cash for ... oh, okay, _okay_ ," she waved her hands in surrender as Greg gave her a meaningful look. "I won't say that any more, though I might think it," she smiled. "So, if anyone actually buys one of the pots, then they can use one of these payment methods that we've got listed here through this Stripe program. The prices all include postage and insurance costs and once someone has paid the price we're asking, we can print a postage label out _here_ with their address, and then all I have to do is pack it carefully in a box with lots of padding and take it to the post office with the label, right?"

"Yes, Mum, exactly right. Now, just in case all these pots sell, do you have any more that you can put in their place? There's no point paying for a website when you've got nothing to sell on it. You really need to have at least the same number of videos again ready to fill in the blank windows when one gets sold."

"So we need to do another six videos?" Joanna looked frazzled.

"Have you got another half-dozen pots?" Greg asked. "This could turn out to be pretty demanding on you if they go quickly, you realise."

"Oh, there's plenty of pots in the cupboards by the sink in the studio," Joanna waved his concern away as if production was the least of her concerns. "And I can probably get another couple done during the coming week if I have to. It's just making the videos that seems to be taking the time. I don't like bothering you."

"Well, there's nothing stopping you and Beth making the videos by yourselves, you know," Greg stretched and leaned back. "We've kind of got the whole thing down to a fine art. You don't really need me anymore."

"Well ... maybe we can do the vids by ourselves," Joanna thought for a second and nodded. "But I still prefer a bit of adult support so that this one," she nudged her daughter. "Doesn't talk me into something I'll regret."

"Did you speak to that first person, the one who wanted the blue vase?" Greg looked for the dark blue urn on the screen. It was still there, with all its dimensions, qualities and listed description, revolving slowly with its brothers and sisters.

"I just emailed them again this afternoon saying that the website and payment system would be going live later today," Joanna said. "Though I seriously doubt they'll be back. Nobody is really going to pay ..."

There was a musical warble that had three sets of eyes turn to look at the message box.

" _HA!_ " Greg stabbed a finger victoriously at the screen. "So much for all your self-doubt!" He grinned, jubilant. Payment had been made on the big blue pot. In front of three fascinated gazes, the image of the spinning blue vase faded from view leaving only five others.

"Is it meant to do that?" Greg looked at Beth who clearly knew more about all of this than both adults put together.

"Yes," she said. "Unless you want to leave your pots up on show after they've been sold? I can change the action sequence if you'd like?" She looked at her mother with an earnest expression.

No, I think it's a good idea to take them down when they're sold," Joanna nodded. "After all, the money ..." she shook her head sounding completely baffled. "The money, all of it, has been paid, yes?"

"Yup, by direct debit," Beth pointed at the small message box near the payment facility. "The money is probably already in your account."

"So we're richer by £200?" Joanna's voice was a mere whisper.

"Well done, Mum." Beth smiled quietly and patted her mother on the shoulder. "You just sold your first pot."

"We'd better get some more videos made, in that case," Greg was already heading towards the studio with the torch.

###

They had all been so busy over the weekend that Monday arrived almost without notice. Beth had taken two days of the previous week off school, not wanting to go in until her bruising faded. All that was left was a line of greenish-yellow marks down the left side of her face.

About to offer Beth some concealer, Joanna heard a car outside the door and glanced through the bedroom window. Greg's blue-grey BMW sat waiting outside. She hurried downstairs.

"If you're okay with it, I thought I'd give Beth a ride to school this morning," Greg met her eyes as he leaned through the open window of the car. "Unless she'd rather not, of course," he added. "I had a feeling she might be a little uncertain about going back. You know the last thing I want to do is barge in, but I just thought that ... _well_ ... y'know."

"I think it's very generous of you to offer but the decision has to be Beth's," Joanna said, resting her hand on his arm. "See how she feels. She might not want to ..."

"Hi Greg. Why are you here?" Beth was slightly breathless having run down the stairs and out to the car. "Is there a problem?"

"No problem, Toots. Simply wondering if you'd like a lift to school this morning. S'up to you, but I'm here if you need a bit of extra support. Just say the word."

"Or if you'd rather not, Beth?" Joanna watched her daughter's expression, smiling suddenly as the child dashed back towards the house, shouting that she was getting her coat and bag. "I guess that answers that," she said.

"Only if you're sure I'm not intruding," Greg looked at her. "I just want to make it perfectly clear to everyone at that school I wasn't making empty threats last week. If Arnold hasn't done what he agreed, I want him to know I meant every word I said."

Beth returned, an expectant look on her face. "Can I sit in the front?"

"Ask your mum, not me," Greg smiled. "I'm only the driver."

"Make the most of this because it's back to walking tomorrow," Joanna shook her head at Beth, amused. "It's very thoughtful of you, Greg."

"Just doing my job. Speaking of which, we never did get around to deciding what we were going to do about finding our mysterious cleaning lady."

"Talk later then," Joanna waved as Greg's car pulled away, heading up Bevington Street. The drive would only take five minutes.

"You alright with going to school today?" Greg kept his eyes on the road and pavements on either side: there were kids all over the place at this time of a morning.

"Yeah," Beth nodded as she stared out the window. "I talked with a couple of my friends online last night and they said Jan, Shauna and Kimberly weren't in school after Wednesday. Everyone thinks they've been suspended."

"Those the girls who were being nasty?" Greg's fingers tightened on the wheel.

"Yes. But nobody knows what's happening, though there may be an announcement in assembly today."

Pulling the BMW to a gentle halt, the school entrance was seconds away down the road, the main glassed entrance standing wide open as children of all ages streamed inside. Greg looked at his watch. "Want me to come in with you?"

Beth thought. "You don't need to come inside with me … but …"

"Yeah?" Greg smiled at her hesitancy. "What, you want me to carry your bag or something?"

"No, that'd be silly. But it would be nice, if you didn't mind …"

Lifting his eyebrows, he waited.

"Could you come with me and stand outside the doors so's everyone can see you?" Beth gave him a hopeful look. "Just so everyone knows I've got someone on my side."

A wave of sadness washed through him at the thought of what this child must have endured. He nodded. "Want me to look mean?"

Beth laughed. "Maybe a bit."

There was still a fairly solid flow of students crossing the road and the wide pavement in front of the school as she left his side and made for the double sets of doors. As promised, Greg stood firmly in view of everyone, his arms folded and a stern expression on his face. Turning, with a small wave, Beth was gone.

###

"I can't think of anything else we can do, not really," Joanna sipped her coffee and looked thoughtful as she lifted her fingers, ticking off the points as she made them. "We've both spoken to the company and been advised that the woman we want to find doesn't actually work there. Neither of the people who referred the company to us are completely sure where they saw the original contact details. Apart from you and I, everyone who knows of this cleaning firm has had a very different experience."

"And all the experiences were tailor-made to suit very specific needs," Greg added. "My friends at the pub got help with the new baby and your mate at the hospital got help looking after her mum and getting her finances sorted out." He shook his head, sighing as he examined the big date-and-sultana muffin she'd bought him as a thank you for taking Beth to school. "Nobody we've spoken to has a bad word to say about any of their dealings with Charmed Cleaning."

"Do we?" Looking at him directly, Joanna frowned. "Yes, absolutely, the _experience_ we've both had has been deeply weird and inexplicable. We still have no earthly idea why anyone would have done what was done to our homes. We don't even know _how_ it was done or … any of it," she frowned some more. "The whole thing is intensely confusing and possibly even a little bit troubling, but are either of us really unhappy with what was done? I mean genuinely _upset_ with it?"

Puffing out his cheeks as he exhaled, Greg leaned back in the coffee shop chair. Linking his fingers across his middle, he thought. Was he upset by any of it? It was bloody confusing, no doubt about it, but he had no sense of anxiety, just an ongoing puzzlement and curiosity. Things had happened both in his flat and at Joanna's house that made no earthly sense and couldn't be explained away by any normal means, but did that make them bad things?

"I'd just prefer to know the _why_ of it, I think," he said finally, looking down at his half-eaten muffin. "My job is to solve mysteries and find answers to things that aren't always easy to find and I've been doing it for a long time," he sighed. "There's a kind of compulsion to _know_."

"Even though sometimes things simply can't be discovered or known?" Joanna watched his expression. "Sometimes we have to let things go whether we like it or not."

Lifting his eyes, Greg smiled at her. "That sounds like something a counsellor would say."

"It is," she admitted. "Not that it makes the notion any less true."

"I dunno," Greg sighed again. "It kind of goes against the grain, to be honest."

"Well then, maybe we don't need to stop looking entirely, but perhaps only when some new information turns up. Like one of your cold cases."

"Using police terminology against an officer of the law in pursuit of his duty might be construed as an offence you know." Greg smiled.

"Then you'd have to arrest me, wouldn't you?" Joanna laughed.

A strange wash of warmth that had nothing to do with the heat of his coffee, filled his stomach. He smiled again. "Beth would probably demand to have a go at the booking system," he grinned suddenly. "She's as sharp as a tack, that one. Brave too."

"They all are," Joanna looked down, a wistful cast to her expression. "I wish I could have done more for them, been there for them more often when they needed me. Done more."

"They are good kids," Greg was surprised at the unexpected heat in his words. "And you're a good mother. There's nothing wrong with any of them or with you. They might be a little bit quiet, but there's nothing wrong with that, it just makes them more thoughtful," he said. "Anyone would be proud to count those children as theirs."

Nodding without speaking, Joanna suddenly fished in her pocket for a tissue. "They are," she murmured, dabbing her eye. "They're terrific kids and I love them with all my heart but you know sometimes, just _sometimes_ , I have this terrible feeling I'm doing it all wrong."

Reaching across the little table between them, Greg caught her free hand and held it tight in his, squeezing her fingers.

"Nobody's perfect," he said quietly. "Everyone can point to any number of things they've screwed up in the past, but that doesn't mean what you're doing or what you've been trying to do is in any way wrong. You're a wonderful mum and your three are lucky to have you."

Raising her eyes to him, Greg realised how much she and Beth were alike, both of them so brave and both trying so hard not to give in to life's cruelties. "You're an amazingly strong woman to have managed all you've done since your husband died," he said slowly. "I'm not sure I could have coped with everything as well as you have, with all the upset and worry, not just for yourself but for all of them as well," he shook his head. "Don't you _ever_ think you're doing anything wrong, 'cos you're not. You're exactly what those three need."

"Thank you." Joanna wiped her cheek with the side of her hand. "It's such a relief to be able to talk to another adult about this stuff, though I worry now that I'm dragging you into something that I shouldn't. It's not fair of me to dump all this on you, especially when you've been so kind."

Greg's chest heaved as he sucked down a deep breath. Mother and daughter were certainly alike and just as bad as each other. "You have no idea," he said staring forward. "How much my life has picked up in the last couple of weeks, just having someone else to think about than my own miserable self. The bit of help I've been able to give you and the kids is nothing, honest, _nothing_. Although," he sat back with a smug look. "I did have a good idea about that website, didn't I? Admit it."

"Yes, it was a good idea," Joanna nodded, blinking and putting away her worries for the moment. "I've still no idea why anyone would want to pay those amounts for my pots." She held up a hand, forestalling his immediate comment. "Yes, I know. You've already told me that I have no self-judgement in this matter and you may be right. It just feels very strange."

Well, if you can sell a pot each week say," Greg pursed his lips. "Then that's going to be around an extra grand a month, less tax and costs. Beth tells me that the payment software you've got on the website automatically deducts tax and things on your behalf and pays it all into a special tax office account; it even prepares all your tax paperwork for you, so whatever ends up in your own bank account is free and clear of any other payment. That's got to make things a little easier."

"I've already filled in the sole trader application," Joanna was grateful for the change of topic. "You can do it all online these days, so Beth showed me. You were right: it actually didn't take very long and I managed to get the business name registered straight away, so there's no problem there, either. The only thing Beth insists I organise now is a picture of me in a dress holding one of the damn pots, as well as finding some appropriate background music."

Greg smiled. That was a cue for him if he ever heard one. "I may be able to give you a bit of a hand there."

###

He returned to Fountain Green Square after dinner with his own elderly laptop, after refreshing his memory on what exactly he might be able to provide in the way of website music. The boys were watching the TV and, on strict instructions from her daughter, Joanna had gone upstairs to find a 'dressy' dress that would do for a photograph on the _River Pots_ webpage.

"No, that's too boring," Beth discarded yet another of Greg's background compilations. "It needs to be a little more like …" she paused, searching for inspiration. "Like an action film soundtrack, after the hero wins and everyone is happy and the music is still kind of action-y but calmer as well."

"So, some kind of calm action hero type music?" Greg maintained a very straight face. "Okay," he had a think, his memory scrolling through all the music files in all the different folders in his database. Even Beth had been quite impressed at the size and scope of the thing though she'd scoffed mightily at his antique device, asking if it was steam powered.

Throwing her a very jaded look, Greg was privately pleased she seemed to have suffered no long-term consequences of the previous week's drama. Time would tell.

There was one batch of files of ambient music he'd collated together ages ago in a folder simply because he couldn't think of anywhere else to put them. All instrumentals, the music _could_ be described as action film trailer music; there was a bit of everything in it; emotion, tension, violins … yeah, it might do.

"Okay then, how about this?" Pulling up the folder, he clicked on the first extended compilation but almost immediately stopped it; it was far too dramatic for background music. "Let's try this one," he murmured, opening the next file down. It was ambient film-score themes with a touch of background orchestration, a shade more heightened than conventional music.

For the first time that evening, Beth sat and listened without making any derogatory comment. "It might work," she nodded thoughtfully. "The solo guitar is nice with the violins in the background and it's not boring. How long is it?"

"About," Greg squinted down at the small numbers. "Six minutes. Why don't I send you the file and then you can see what you can do with it creatively?" He began typing an email on his laptop to Beth's email address, attaching the sound file. She'd told him this was an inefficient way of sending anything these days and why couldn't he simply upload to the cloud. Greg smiled and sent her the email, making a mental note to find out how to upload something to the cloud.

"Will this do?" Joanna's voice came from behind them and the musical collaborators turned simultaneously.

"You look really nice, Mummy," Beth nodded with satisfaction that her mother had actually put on something meeting the description of a 'floaty' dress. It also had dark shades of mauve and blue and brown in it which would match nicely with the purple velvet under the spinning pots. Already, her inner designer was considering complementary colours for backgrounds and accents. Maybe a deep blue river background with banner headers of white? Maybe some pictures of the Thames at sunset? At least her mother looked like someone who might make pottery now, not at all like the stuff she wore to go to work during the week. It was a good look for an artist. Beth thought she might be able to do something useful with this. She wondered if Greg had other sounds in his database. River sounds ... seagulls maybe.

All Greg could think was how pretty Joanna was. Her hair seemed longer, pinned back on one side showing the smooth line of her neck and the curve of her shoulders. How soft she looked … soft and sweet. He smiled. She was like a breath of fresh air. Her lips were a darker shade than usual, not that he was paying really close attention.

"Will this do?" Joanna asked again, watching Greg's face. Frowning for a moment, her face cleared and she relaxed, twirling on the spot, the loose chiffon sleeves and skirt giving her the semblance of being wrapped in a transparent shadow.

"I think you look perfect," Greg nodded. "The dress. Is perfect," he amended.

"Now that you _finally_ look like someone who makes things, we can take a photo and put it on the website next to your bio," Beth looked thoughtful. "Where would be a good place to have your photo taken?"

"How about sitting at the wheel where you make the pots?" Greg opened his hands. "At least then everyone will be able to see that it's actually you who's the potter."

"Yes!" Beth snapped her fingers. "And then we can make a video of you actually making the pots before you put them on the website for sale!"

Looking momentarily harried, Joanna gave her eldest child an undecided glance. "Perhaps later, Bethy. One thing at a time."

Assembling in the small studio that had become so familiar in the last couple of weeks, Greg suggested Joanna sit on the wheel's seat.

"Kind of side-saddle, if you know what I mean, not as if you were going to start work on something but like you were at a party and just …" he waved his hands vaguely. "Sat on the thing."

"Like this?" Hooking the heel of her shoe over the lower rail of the wheel's seat, she turned to one side, crossed her legs and leaned forward, supporting her chin in one hand, her elbow resting on the raised knee.

Greg's stomach gurgled strangely. "Perfect," he said again, lifting his phone, looking for the best pose. "I'll take a few different ones and then Little Miss Expert over here gets to choose which one is the best or we'll never hear the end of it."

In a matter of seconds, the deed was done. Rather than waiting for Greg to stagger his way out of any more technological backwaters, Beth simply relieved him of his phone and sent the images to the laptop.

"It's almost frightening how competent she is with that stuff," Joanna accepted Greg's hand to balance on as she unhooked her foot and slid off her seat. "She's so single-minded about learning everything." A faint waft of her perfume reached him and his pulse surged at the same time his stomach gurgled again.

"Are you hungry?" Joanna looked at him appraisingly. "When did you last eat a proper meal?

"Ah, I had a coffee and some biscuits before I came over. It's been too busy today to even think about eating."

"Right. I'll just get changed and then I'll sort you out something edible," Joanna looked at him airily. "I will not have you going hungry simply to keep Beth and me happy with the website. The very least I can do is organise you a decent supper."

Unwilling to disturb Beth at her work which, based on her expression, was deeply technical and fiddly, Greg went and sat with the boys who were in the middle of an argument.

" _Oy_ ," he spoke quietly as Jack punched his brother none too gently in the arm. "Be nice. He's smaller than you."

"It's my turn to choose what to watch but he's lying on the remote and the football's about to start." Jack's pout was epic and Greg had to bite the inside of his cheek not to smile. He checked his watch.

"It's his bedtime in five minutes," Greg looked down at the boy. "Your mum'll be after him any second now, just wait a tick."

As if she'd been given a stage direction, Joanna stuck her head around the door telling Max to go and clean his teeth and be off to bed. Raising his eyebrows, Greg gave Jack a nudge, leaning over and picking up the TV remote. "Here you go," he said. "Who's playing?"

"West Ham and Cardiff," The boy accepted the device and eagerly began pressing buttons until the television screen flipped to the scene of a green turf and files of players running onto the pitch.

"Don't tell me you support Cardiff City?" Greg gave him a look of deep pity.

"Of course not," Jack watched the players avidly. "I'm a West Ham man, me."

Greg could hardly believe it. "You follow the Hammers?"

Curious at Greg's tone, Jack looked up at him. "Yes. What's the matter with that?"

"Who's your favourite player then?"

Jack looked thoughtful for a second before shrugging. "Well, personally," he said. "I think Declan Rice is ace, even though Marko Arnautovic got Hammer of the Year last year," he shrugged again. "Who do you follow?"

Shaking his head and grinning, Greg gestured towards the television. "The Hammers," he said. "Though I reckon Mark Noble could see both Rice and Arnautovic off without raising a sweat."

" _No_ _way!_ " Jack sounded both shocked and elated that at last, there was someone in the house who shared his admiration of West Ham United Football Club. "Have you ever seen them play at the London Stadium?"

"Yeah," Greg nodded, taking the remote from the boy and touching the volume up a notch. "I try and catch as many home games live as I can, though of course, I can't get to all of them because I'm working. But there's at least a few home games a month, so I try and get to one or two of them," Greg watched the two teams line up in preparation for the national Anthem. "When was the last time you saw them play?"

Looking back to the TV, Jack gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Never been," he said. "I just get to watch bits of them at the weekend mostly, 'cos mum won't let me stay up late on a school night."

"And you've never been to a Hammers home match?" Greg was surprised. The boy must be keen to keep such enthusiasm going at his age. "Doesn't your mum want you to go?"

"It's not that," Jack met his gaze again. "I was only a baby when dad died, and there's not really enough money and mum can't take me 'cos she has to look after Max and work all the time." He flashed a quick grin. "But seeing 'em on the telly is almost as good, isn't it?"

"Yes it is. Almost as good." Greg turned his eyes to the small screen though his mind was somewhere else entirely. Of course Jack would never have been able to go to a match without someone to take him and apart from tight finances, Joanna didn't strike him as the football type.

"Hang on," he said, handing the remote to the boy beside him. "Back in a minute. Tell me if I miss anything."

Heading out into the kitchen, Greg watched Joanna assembling the makings of a substantial Welsh rarebit, presumably for his supper.

"Can we talk about football?" he said.


	8. Deeper and Deeper

The boy was so excited Greg could feel him vibrating by his side as they waited for the turnstiles to open and the tickets to be scanned. The sun was shining and the crowd was looking good. Since he usually bought half-season tickets, Greg didn't actually need to queue up this early, but Jack clutched a single match ticket and should have the full experience at least once. Greg grinned again as the boy hopped around, bouncing on his toes as if it was Christmas Eve and his birthday all rolled into one. He wore his wine-coloured West Ham scarf to a live match for the first time and was very proud of the fact.

"Your lad's looking fit to burst," the man standing behind them observed, grinning. "You don't usually see such enthusiasm for home games these days."

About to clarify their relationship, Greg shrugged mentally. He was only doing what Jack's father would have done were he still around.

"He's been looking forward to this match for a very long time," Greg smiled back. "At his age, everything's exciting."

"Let's hope he gets a good game, then," the other man said. "Can't disappoint the young'uns."

There was movement at the front of the queue as people surged forward. Because they carried no bags, Greg and Jack were waved through the security check and on into the flood of people, mostly men and other boys. Concerned about Jack wandering off, Greg leaned over and snagged the hood of the boy's jacket, tugging him closer.

"What's the matter?" Jack protested as he was pulled to Greg's side.

"If I let you get lost, your mum'll have my hide," Greg said. "It's either this or you'll have to hold my hand until we get clear of the crowd. Up to you."

"Oh. Okay, then," Jack acknowledged as his small fingers crept up to hold the man's much larger ones.

Unused to such complete and absolute trust, a sudden tightness filled Greg's chest at the child's innocence. How did Joanna manage to cope with this feeling every day, every week? How could she even bear to let any of them out of her sight? He took a deep breath and cleared his throat.

"Right," he said. "There's a tradition at matches that everyone grabs something to eat before the kick-off," he said, turning the boy until he could see all the different food-stall signs. "This is men's food," he grinned. "What do you fancy? A hot dog? Burger?" Judging by Jack's wide-eyed pleasure, the treat was very special.

"Can I really have whatever I like?" he asked.

"Well, you're a bit young for beer, but you can have anything else," Greg smiled again at Jack's obvious delight.

His gaze taking in all the different possibilities, Jack couldn't decide. "What are you going to have?"

While not feeling particularly hungry, Greg was prepared to fake it for the boy's sake. "I shall have ..." he pondered. "I shall have a pie. A chicken pie."

"Can I have a pie too?" The hopeful note in Jack's voice made Greg's chest tighten all over again.

"Yes, of course you can, if you want," Greg guided the child over to the nearest hot food vendor. "Come over here and decide what kind you'd like."

With a steaming savoury pastry in one hand and a large Coke in the other, Jack led the way down to seats very close to the half-way line and even closer to the barriers around the pitch. Greg normally preferred to sit higher up in order to get a better look at the entire field and observe the wider strategic movements of attack and defence. But this was Jack's match and so they claimed seats almost at the very edge of the turf. The crowd roared as the two teams ran out, Jack's shriek of excitement piercing enough to make Greg wince and lean away with a hopeless grin on his face. The two teams assembled, the coin tossed and the game was on.

Rescuing Jack's drink the first time Declan Rice ran by close enough to see the sweat on the young player's brow, Greg laughed at the child's uninhibited howl. His enthusiasm so spontaneous that Greg laughed again, his pleasure as much as the boy's beside him.

###

"And it was all so _loud_ ," Jack exclaimed, walking around the confines of the Foy's small front room. Still wearing his scarf, Joanna was treated to a superlative-filled, blow-by-blow account of the afternoon's events. "Really, really loud. It was _brilliant_ , Mum. Absolutely fantastic!"

"Was it fantastic?" Joanna met Greg's gaze, her eyes asking a slightly different question.

"Yup, fantastic," Greg agreed cheerfully. "Best match I've been to in ages." He winked at Jack over his mother's shoulder. "If Jack's good and does all his homework and school stuff, can he come out to play again on the fifteenth of next month? It's West Ham versus Everton and they always have a good scrap."

"Scrap?" Joanna kept her face straight.

"Strategic encounter," Greg corrected himself. "Highly educational."

"So this would be an educational outing then?" Joanna's eyes danced.

"Absolutely." Reaching out to grab the boy's arm, Greg pulled him close to his side, placing a hand on Jack's head. "And Jack needs all the education he can get, don't you Jack?" His head being moved up and down in a jerky nod, Jack giggled.

"And he promises to do all his school work first, don't you Jack?" A second mechanical nod had the boy laughing, leaning into Greg's side.

"As long as he behaves himself and the two of you don't get into any trouble," Joanna smiled as Greg went for a third nod, leaving her son on the floor in a fit of giggles.

"All right. Off you go and get changed Jack; dinner's ready in about half-an-hour. You will stay for dinner, won't you?" she said, looking at Greg. It was more of a statement than a question. "It's Moussaka, if you like Greek food."

"I love Greek food," Greg followed Joanna out into the kitchen. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Can you make a salad?" Joanna pointed to a pile of tomatoes, a cucumber and some fresh parsley and mint on the table.

"I can cut things up and put them in a bowl if that's any good?"

"That will be fine. Wash your hands please."

"Yes, Mum." Greg narrowly dodged the tea towel flicked his way.

Contentedly chopping the vegetables and herbs into a saladish creation, Greg sniffed appreciatively as Joanna brought a big deep dish out of the oven, allowing the delicious aroma of lamb and garlic and cheese to fill the small room.

"You good at cooking as well as being a brilliant potter?" Greg asked casually.

"Not really, no." Joanna set the Moussaka on a trivet on the table to let it stand for a few minutes. "I only know how to do a few things like this. I have neither the time nor the inclination to be a better cook, to be honest," she added, placing a basket of hot bread rolls on the table. "You finished over there?"

Placing his handiwork on the table next to the bread, Greg gazed down at the meal. "Looks pretty good to me," he said, smiling happily. "Though you'll have to let me help you out a bit with some money; I can't have you feeding me as well as all your lot."

"There's plenty for everyone here," Joanna shook her head, pleased at his consideration. "I may not be the world's greatest chef, but this kind of thing is meant for sharing. I only have time to do this at the weekend though. During the week it's more usually pasta and home-made sauces, or fresh fish and chips and salads, that kind of thing."

"Sounds like proper grub to me," Greg helped set the table. "I know I don't usually eat that well."

" _Dinner_ ," Joanna summoned her brood and began dishing out the food while everyone was treated to yet another run-through of Jack's first live football match.

###

Joanna wiped the clean plates as he washed, the kitchen empty now but for them.

"Fancy a coffee?" she asked, taking a large glass cafetiere from a shelf, spooning in aromatic ground coffee as she waited for the kettle to boil.

"Love one, thanks," Greg rinsed out the sink with the last of the soapy water before drying his hands. "Here, let me," he said, pouring the near boiling water in the glass pot and stirring the coffee slowly, the dark fragrance filling the air around them.

Bringing down an old round tin from an upper cupboard, Joanna took the lid off for him to see. "Like a piece of fruitcake?"

As he sat at the kitchen table, the room still scented with the memory of lamb and aubergine and garlic, sipping a decent coffee and munching a slab of fruitcake, Greg realised he hadn't felt this relaxed and comfortable with his life for a very long time. "This is nice," he said, nibbling on a piece of cake.

"An old recipe of my mother's." Joanna nodded. "They knew how to make proper cakes back in those days."

"No, you dafty, not the cake, this," Greg smiled and waved his hands in the air. " _This_ is nice."

Thoughtful for a moment, Joanna nodded. "Yes," she said. "Yes, it is. I'd forgotten what it's like to have another adult around to help take care of things. Jack would never have got what he wanted if you hadn't been around to help him," she sighed and sipped her coffee. "There's always so many things to do and never enough time to do them, especially now that we've got the website up and running."

"And how is the pottery business these days?" Greg asked, interested. It had been just over a month since they'd set the thing in motion.

"You don't know? You haven't spoken with Beth yet?" Joanna arched her eyebrows, grinning. "Wait there one second," she said, leaving the kitchen and returning moments later with the ASUS laptop. In seconds, she had the thing opened and booting up, entering her security password to access the website and all its details. Greg said nothing but noted how deft and practiced her actions had become compared to only a few weeks previous. It was amazing what a bit of self-confidence and support could accomplish.

"I'm astonished Beth didn't insist on telling you all about this," Joanna turned the laptop so the screen faced him. "Though she's been writing a song with some of her friends most of the afternoon."

Greg scanned the River Pots webpage noting that the slowly revolving images now numbered nine, with prices ranging from just over the hundred, to one particularly spiffy vase set at nearly four times as much. Clearly Beth had been at work on her mother's pricing strategy. There was also some gentle background music which sounded very much like the track he'd given Joanna's eldest, though it had obviously been through a filter of some kind. Whatever, it really suited the mood of the website. The background colours seemed somehow richer and darker too, setting off everything else with an air of luxury and refinement.

There was a photo of Joanna in the top right corner in her floaty dress with a brief biographical note beside it. As he scrolled down, Greg realised that, when he moused over any of the spinning pots, a window of text opened, giving the measurements, dimensions and colours of each one, along with a short description and the background and influence of their creation.

His eyes widened in real surprise when he clocked the visitor's box at the bottom of the page showing that the number of hits to _River Pots_ had rolled over a thousand.

" _Holy moly_ ," he met Joanna's eyes before turning back to the screen. "This is incredible traffic for a small, unknown site. Have you sold many pots?"

Joanna's grin verged on the smug. "Eleven," she said. "We've sold eleven in four weeks and my bank balance has never looked so healthy. This was a real brainwave of yours and I will never doubt you again."

Nodding, gratified, Greg leaned forward on the table. "How's Beth taking it all?"

"She's officially my business manager now and loving every minute of it," Joanna laughed. "I'm paying her a five percent commission on sales, so she's getting to understand how a business works but quite honestly, she's a natural at all this. She's even been mentioned in the school's magazine as one of Bermondsey's young entrepreneurs." Shaking her head, Joanna shrugged. "What can I say? River Pots is actually working."

"Knew it would," it was Greg's turn to sound smug.

"Beth's very fond of you, you know," Joanna looked down at her coffee. "So's Jack, obviously and I'm sure Max thinks you're the bee's knees. Thank you for doing everything you've done for them. The difference in them these past few weeks has been truly marvellous."

"I like them all too," Greg inhaled slowly. "In a way, I guess I ... I'm a bit envious," he said. "I've felt much more myself these last few weeks too. Sort of more ... _sprightly_ , if that's not a daft word to use." He glanced across to check she didn't think his words foolish. "And I have to say that it's all been because I was able to help you and yours," he smiled. "Maybe this is the reason the cleaning fairy came to my flat, although," he paused, grinning. "It really could just have been to clean the place; it was a bit of a tip, to be honest."

"I'm sure you have a very pleasant home," Joanna laughed. "Want another coffee?"

"Ah, better not or I'll be up all night, thanks."

"It's Saturday night. Do you need to be up early tomorrow morning?" Joanna looked at him curiously. "It's the one night a week I allow myself a late evening, though I know some people like to stick to a fairly rigid bedtime throughout the week to maintain a good sleeping habit. Is that why you do it?"

It was a reasonable question. Why did he go to bed so early? When had he begun hitting the sack before ten most nights? Thinking back, Greg shrugged.

"I reckon I started going to sleep earlier because it was one way of getting through the grey days," he said, rubbing his chin in thought. "Now it's just a habit, really. Not because I need the sleep. In fact sometimes I wake up really early and simply go into work to have something to occupy my time."

"So you can have another coffee then?" Joanna stood, reaching for his mug. "If there's no rush for you to go, that is."

"Next you'll be telling me there's an old Clint Eastwood western on the telly later," he laughed. "It would be a nice ending to the day."

Giving him the oddest look, Joanna picked up the Radio Times sitting on the sideboard and handed it over, tapping the ITV4 eight o'clock slot with a fingertip. _Two Mules for Sister Sara_.

"Classic!" Greg laughed again. "Anyone would think this was meant to be, Jo. Hey, got any of that wine left?"

Turning with his mug in hand, Joanna paused, her face suddenly stilled.

"What's the matter? You okay?" The change in her expression was so profound, Greg wondered if she'd spilled hot coffee on herself.

"It's nothing," she smiled slowly, setting his mug down on the table. "It's only that ... nobody's called me _Jo_ like that since Steven ... it caught me by surprise a little," she smiled again, heading to the fridge to fish out the two-thirds full bottle of wine.

"Sorry," Greg kicked himself mentally. "It felt like a natural thing to say but I won't if you'd prefer not."

"No, honestly, it's not a problem," Joanna placed the bottle on the table and two stemmed glasses. "I rather like it, actually." Holding up the Shiraz, she judged the level of the contents. "There's about two glasses each in here. Will you be all right to drive if you have this much?"

"After that wonderful dinner and this coffee, I could probably sink a whole bottle and it wouldn't affect me, so a couple of glasses will be perfect," Greg relaxed again, glad he hadn't ruined the mood with his unintentional gaffe.

"Well then, shall we go and let Jack tell us about the great football experience one more time before I put the boys to bed? Then that film's on and we can polish off the wine, if that suits you?"

Greg smiled as he stood, clutching his coffee. It suited him very well indeed.

###

He'd spent what little quiet time he had at work between meetings and phone calls adding shape to the mysterious Charmed Cleaning organisation and to the 'visits' he and Jo had received. Even though they'd agreed not to actively investigate the strange situation, he reckoned he'd sussed out a more-or-less logical explanation of sorts.

If was obvious that these experiences couldn't happen to everyone all the time or it'd be all over the papers and the six o'clock news, with people screaming about aliens or the occult or fairies or something equally idiotic. Therefore, these unique ... interventions, for want of a better word, were somehow dependent upon locating a suitable recipient and identifying what help or assistance they _needed_ the most. This then argued that someone who knew each of the recipients really well was involved in each occasion. He hadn't worked out how or to what extent these strange women from the cleaning company ended up participating in the, well, the makeover, or even how all the things that were done actually _got_ done, but those were operational details and could be tackled later.

Nor was he sure what kind of organisation went around helping people like this, with some very concrete and physical assistance. Possibly it was some kind of private London charity, or some reclusive philanthropist. Maybe, and it was a fairly big maybe, it was even something to do with the Freemasons. They were a secretive bunch who moved in mysterious ways at the best of times. Either way, there was someone or a group of someones involved who had both money and clout and a willingness to distribute both. It _had_ to be a charitable foundation of some sort. There was no other sensible, rational explanation.

It was plausible he'd been selected because of the state he'd let himself get into; there were any number of people who could attest to the fact he'd probably been one disciplinary meeting shy of leaving the force. Joanna ... well, she had been doing things tough with the kids for some time and there were likely to be an equally large number of people who knew she had been struggling. If, for whatever reason, he and Jo had been deliberately brought together by the silver-haired Rowan Good, then there had to be _some_ kind of rationale, and he thought he'd worked that part out as well.

He had needed to buck his ideas up and the amazing changes to his flat had helped with that, so that was his need taken care of. Obviously, Joanna had needed to get her schtick together and put her pottery on the market but it wasn't until he came along and gave her a bit of a nudge that anything happened. So that was Jo's 'need', though how anyone imagined he'd be the one to motivate her was a question he preferred to leave for later. Beth's need had pretty clearly been help with her school situation, just as Jack needed someone who understood football enough to stand in for his missing father. He hadn't the faintest idea what a tacker like Max might be lacking, but if everyone involved in these situations got what they most _needed_ , then there had to be something. Greg made a mental note to keep both eyes on the lad, just in case. Once Max's problem, whatever it might be, was resolved, then _their_ situation, his and Jo's, would have been sorted, just like the Linesmith's and Jo's friend at Guy's hospital.

The only way this could possibly have happened was that someone who knew them really well individually had to have been involved. That they both happened to work for the Met suggested it might even be someone who knew them through a work relationship. Greg pursed his mouth, wondering what or who the common denominator might be.

He was thinking vaguely of how anyone could possibly _know_ such details about any of them when his phone buzzed with an unexpected text.

_Mum's being an idiot. You have to talk to her._

Unsure why anyone might send him such a message, all was revealed the second he saw who the sender was. Given the number of times he'd simply handed Beth his phone for one reason or another, it was inevitable she would have his number by now. Strange though; it wasn't like her to make a fuss over nothing. He texted a reply.

_Don't call your mother an idiot and why do I have to speak to her?_

_She's not doing something she really needs to do but she'll listen to you._

_What is it she needs to do?_

_There's a fancy dinner coming up to do with her job and she has to go but she won't_.

_Then that's her decision and none of my business._

_It's really really important she goes to the dinner. You have to convince her to go. She's won an award but won't go and collect it. Please talk to her._

_OK. I'll give her a shout but it's your mum's choice, right?_

Wondering if there might be something else that was worrying Beth, Greg sent a brief email to Joanna's work address.

'Beth is worried about you not doing something. Is she OK? Cheers, Greg.'

He had to wait nearly twenty minutes for a response.

'I'm so very sorry. I'll tell her not to bother you at work. Beth has a bee in her bonnet about this but I'll not have her dragging you in for moral support. Apologies. Regards, Jo.'

Greg's curiosity was roused. Beth wouldn't ask for his help unless there was just cause. The child must be pretty anxious to contact him like this. He replied to Joanna's email.

'Beth said you've won an award but you aren't going to go and collect it. Is there a problem I can help with? Cheers, Greg.'

The response this time was almost immediate.

'There's an annual dinner for the BACP, the British Association of Psychotherapists. Yes. I have won an award. It's not important, but thanks for offering. Regards, Jo.'

Now he was genuinely puzzled. To be given an award by the national body through which your held your professional accreditation was a fairly big deal in his book. Chewing his lip for a few seconds, he made a decision and picked up his mobile, ringing Joanna's phone. He fancied he heard the faintest of sighs when she answered.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry Beth is bothering you about this, Greg. I'll make sure she stops doing it immediately."

"It's not a problem, seriously, Jo. I know Beth wouldn't contact me unless she was very concerned and that her concern was genuine, so what's the deal? You won an award? That's fantastic." Leaning back in his chair, he searched the ceiling in his office for any potential clues as to Joanna's problem.

"Thank you, and it's very thoughtful of you to offer to help, but it's really not that important for me to go and collect it."

"Beth said there was a dinner you needed to attend." This time, the sigh was front and centre.

"It's an annual thing. There's a dinner and dance and a small award ceremony. Yes, I've won an award but no, I have no plans to attend the event. I haven't attended for several years now. They'll send me the award in the post, I expect."

It was the _several years_ comment that finally switched the light on in his stultifying dense brain. Greg screwed his eyes tight shut and called himself ten kinds of a fool for not working it out before. What with everything else going on, it simply hadn't seemed important _. Of course_ Joanna wouldn't want to go by herself when she had probably attended before with Steven. And besides, who went to one of these gigs alone? If he was right ... there was only one way to find out.

"Is it because you don't want to go by yourself?" he asked softly. "Your private life is absolutely none of my business but in all the time I've known you, not once have you mentioned that you're seeing someone."

"There hasn't been anyone ... since Steven ..." Joanna spoke as softly as he. "What with the children and simply trying to manage everything ..."

It was official. He was a complete prat. How he'd ever managed to end up as a detective ...

"Right then," he said, injecting a note of practicality into a moment that threatened to become impossibly sad. "You know how much you liked my previous brainwaves, well, here's another one. Of course, everything is entirely up to you, but what I suggest is this. You go out and buy yourself a posh frock with some of your ill-gotten gains, and organise a proper babysitter and I'll stick on a suit and be your plus one for the evening," he said. "I'll sit where you tell me, applaud when I'm supposed to and generally be your no-strings-attached escort for the evening. How does that sound? I scrub up reasonably well and if the only reason you're not going to collect that award is because you don't have anyone at your back for moral support, then you don't have that as an excuse anymore," he added. "Unless you're telling me there's a different reason and I've got it all wrong despite my thirty years on the force and being a very h'experienced h'officer."

There was empty silence at the other end of the line and Greg wondered if he really had screwed the pooch this time. He waited, hardly breathing.

"You're quite mad, you know," Joanna wasn't laughing but on the other hand, she wasn't laughing either.

"Mad good or mad scary?" Greg went back to searching his ceiling.

"Insane." He could almost hear her head shaking.

"Is that good insane or ..."

" _Stop!_ Alright! _Yes_ , I _accept!_ I'll go to this bloody thing or between you and Beth, I'll never hear the end of it, will I?"

Greg couldn't help the smile that curved his mouth.


	9. A Different Step

He knew his good suit, the one he wore to the Old Bailey Number One Court and other really special events, would rise to the occasion. It wasn't bespoke but it was partly tailored and fitted nicely. A dark navy, it was three-piece and though he rarely wore the waistcoat, he had decided to give it an airing for once, lending a certain gravitas to his appearance. A snowy-white shirt with the merest hint of a pearlised stripe, a dark blue silk tie with embroidered burgundy arabesques and a suitably dark handkerchief to fold into the jacket's breast pocket completed his official 'escort' outfit. His decent black Oxfords had been buffed to a high gleam and he had even bought new navy silk socks for the night. He had both money and credit cards in his wallet, one of his spare white 'witness' handkerchiefs in another pocket in case of happy tears later on, and several dabs of a subtle Burberry aftershave he'd treated himself to, because why not. He was scrubbed from top to toe, smelled good and was everything he thought a proper gentleman escort needed to be. Given there was likely to be drinking with the dinner, he felt a cab would be the most prudent mode of transport for the evening, which was cool but dry.

At precisely seven o'clock on a chilly Friday night, his cabbie waited as he rang the Foy's front door bell. Hearing muffled voices behind the door, Greg waited feeling suddenly and unaccountably nervous. The door opened and ...

Backlit against the hallway lights, Joanna looked like something out of a classy Hollywood film. Her dress was pale, floor-length and sparkled a little. He caught the impression of a long string of pearls, red lipstick and earrings that glinted in the street lights. She turned in the doorway to speak to someone inside.

"You have my number if anything happens, though the children are normally fairly well behaved. Jack is to go to bed by eight no matter what he tells you and please make sure Beth isn't still reading after ten. I'll be back by midnight at the latest, so help yourself to whatever's in the fridge if you're hungry and call me if there's a problem, you have my number." Joanna stopped and thought. "I think that's it. See you later. Be good, you two." Waving to Beth and Jack who were standing behind the professional baby-sitter, Joanna finally turned to face her escort for the evening, fastening her jacket a little tighter around her shoulders. She smiled.

Whether it was the change in proximity or the fact that the evening breeze was blowing towards him, Greg found himself caught in a wave of delectable perfume that reminded him of a spring garden. It was the first time he'd ever seen Joanna with her hair up and make up that was seriously applied.

"You look fabulous," he said, offering her his arm. "Everything all right with the kids?"

"Thank you," Joanna smiled, shivering a little in the cool air. "Beth is probably more excited about this than I am, to be honest, and Jack keeps staring at me as if I'm one of the pod people."

"He's probably not seen you all dolled up like this for a while, has he?" Greg opened the wide rear door of the black London taxi and helped her inside.

"Not for a very long while. Not since he was a toddler, probably." Joanna settled into the wide rear seat and belted in as the taxi moved off. At this time of an evening, the drive to St Mary's in Marylebone would take around half an hour. "You're looking rather dapper yourself if you don't mind me saying."

"Didn't want to let the side down on what will undoubtedly be a night of triumph for you," he smiled at her. "You really do look spectacular."

"Now you're flattering me," she said, smiling anyway. "It was fun to be able to go out and buy a new dress without worrying too much about the cost," she said. "Although this one was in a sale anyway, but it felt good to be able to do it. Beth considers it most suitable as it covers up all the saggy bits."

About to say that he hadn't noticed a saggy anything, Greg felt that discretion might be the best rule for the evening. He was here to support Jo, not to flirt with her. The night lights of London were, as ever, brilliant against the dark of the sky, the whole city giving off a glow of excitement that never entirely disappointed.

"I didn't think to ask," Greg said. "Are you going to have to make a speech? If you're up for an award, will they expect you to say something about it?"

"Maybe a few words, but that's all," Joanna nodded in the dark. "Though there's really not much I can say. Everything I do is part of my job and the fact that I've been able to make a demonstrable difference is really all the recognition I ever wanted. The award tonight is more for the BACP's public profile than mine."

"Well, that's a load of cobblers, for a start," Greg frowned. "You've obviously done something pretty special to be even noticed in a national organisation filled with other people also doing their job. You've worked for this and the stuff you've done has been noticed and considered well above the norm." Greg folded his hands together in his lap. "I'd be chuffed to bits if it were me," he added quietly. "Don't sell yourself short."

There was a reflective silence between them as they watched the night lights flash by the cab. Before they knew it, the car was slowing to a gentle halt outside a large, mid-century building.

"Here you go, Mate." The cabbie stopped right outside the main entrance which was gaily lit and had numbers of well-dressed couples entering. Paying the driver with a decent tip, Greg exited the cab first, helping Jo out and onto the pavement. He felt her fingers tremble. It might be the cold. Though more likely ...

"Nervous?" he asked.

"A little," Joanna gazed forward as the brightly lit building before sliding her hand automatically into the crook of his arm. "Though I've no idea why I should be."

"You're probably feeling a bit out of practice," he strolled with her to the main entrance where she produced a printed white card, handing it across to a woman, dressed neatly in black, standing by the door. After being ushered through into the main body of the reception space they were able to relax and look around as the warm air removed the outdoor chill. The magnificent, double-story hall fielded a couple of dozen large round tables around the empty centre of the room and people were already beginning to take seats. A small band in the far corners was quietly playing some background jazz, the sound gradually being muted out by the rise of voices and laughter.

"You'll be great; you know, riding bikes and all that. Looks like there's a full bar over there. Let me get you a proper drink to help you warm up. What's your pleasure?"

Unbuttoning her jacket and handing it to the cloakroom attendant, Joanna missed the expression on her escort's face as he took in her appearance for the first time in good light. As his eyes drew lightly across her eye-catching sheath of a dress: a long cream and sand-coloured gown, with a scattering of pale sequins across the shoulders and sleeves that glinted as she moved. Greg didn't look bemused so much as thoughtful. With her hair up and the pearls around her throat and the smiling mouth as she turned to speak to him, he saw, with a jerk of realisation, that Joanna Foy was a stunner. Had he been so far gone in his own gloomy apathy that he hadn't recognised a lovely woman when he saw one?

"A Tom Collins, if they're up to making cocktails, or a glass of red if not, please. That would be lovely."

Blinking himself out of his momentary fugue, Greg smiled. "Do we need to find a table first or is the seating allocated?"

Glancing at the nearest table, covered in white damask and lit by a small central table light, Joanna saw no name cards. "Looks like we can sit anywhere we like," she smiled at him again, a happy, excited smile and he felt his breath catch in his chest.

"Grab a couple of seats then, and I'll be back in a tick," Greg nodded, inhaling deeply as he headed for the bar. There were cocktails available, so he got Jo what she wanted and a glass of Semillon Blanc for himself: it was probably best to avoid the hard stuff this evening. Looking around in the subdued lighting that filled the main well of the venue, he spotted Joanna sitting at a partially filled table chatting to several people either side of her. Making a swift count of the number of seats, both filled and empty, he reckoned there were a few hundred people expected here tonight. It was clearly an important do and made him even more positive that convincing Jo to attend this evening had been the right things to do.

Depositing Joanna's drink on the table in front of her, Greg gave everyone else at the table one of his general 'nice policeman' smiles. "Evening." He nodded around, taking the empty seat beside Jo who immediately began introducing him to the others at the table.

"Greg, this is Sara Gutamari and her husband Mark and the other side of you are Juliet Hardacre and her partner Christopher. Sara and Juliet and I were all at Reading on the same master's course. It seems like a million years ago now, though."

"Hello, Greg. It's lovely to see Joanna here again after missing the event so many times because of work. It's good you were able to persuade her to come tonight." Sara's clear contralto voice befitted her striking good looks.

Realising Jo had pleaded volume of work to avoid attending this annual dinner in previous years, Greg took his cue and nodded, smiling. "Jo works herself too hard and what with the job and the kids, I'm amazed she's got time for anything else quite honestly."

"And you work at Scotland Yard as well?" Juliet's partner Christopher seemed to be sizing him up for some reason Greg couldn't immediately fathom. Maybe the guy had known Steven before his death and was naturally curious and comparing.

"I work in CID and Jo's upstairs with the management," Greg nodded amiably, taking a sip of the crisp white wine. "It's a big place."

"We found out we once used the same cleaning service. It's funny how things like that can begin conversations." Joanna shared a quick glance between her friends who looked knowing.

"I'm sure our Jo is glad to have all the help she can with that brood of hers." Christopher Hardacre leaned around the back of Greg's chair, patting Joanna's arm in a manner Greg felt was entirely too familiar. And why was he calling her 'our Jo'? Had they known each other before? Smiling politely but with fractionally narrowed eyes, he said nothing and sipped his wine.

Most of the tables were fully seated now with only the odd vacant chair. There was movement on the small circular podium at the front of the room as the main lights sank down and the stage brightened. A well-dressed man in his late forties stood up to speak.

"Good evening to you all and a warm BACP welcome to practitioners and partners ..."

The man was obviously the head of the organisation and Greg sat back preparing to be bored. The inevitable speech wasn't too bad as speeches went but it was clearly aimed at the members of the association rather than their plus ones. Unlike events he'd attended in the past, some of them within the hallowed halls of the Met itself, the CEO was brief. He probably knew better than to woffle on and on in front of an audience of psychotherapists. After a refreshingly short address, another man appeared clutching a handful of large white envelopes. Greg rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward. This looked a bit more promising.

The newcomer to the stage introduced himself as Anthony Wood, Head of Quality Service within the organisation.

"And to anyone who's never been to one of our annual dinners before, we always make three awards each year to recognise some of our best and brightest practitioners in the three key areas of service to the community, advancing the profession and high achievement of the year." He held three large envelopes up in the air, taking a couple of minutes to give examples of projects that had won each category in the past.

"And ... without further ado, our first award goes to Georgia Hughes for services to the elderly in central Cardiff ..."

As an older woman navigated her way to the front podium through a wave of applause and some whistles, Greg looked around at the faces on nearby tables. Everyone was smiling and laughing. It seemed this was a popular choice of recipient. The grey-haired woman accepted the envelope and spoke a few words about her work with the elderly and how lovely it was to be ahead of the game in her final year before her own retirement. Returning to her seat to further applause, a second envelope was held aloft.

"The award for advancing the profession goes to ..." Greg zoned out a little, watching a neat little man with enormous spectacles make his way to the front. Judging by what was said, he seemed to have brought a new level of counselling to the Coast Guard service of Cornwall, no mean feat if he'd done it alone. Greg frowned. If the first two awards were already gone, then the one Joanna had won must be ...

"And so, to our final award of the evening, the recipient of which is one of our best and brightest counsellors whose consistent results demonstrate an ability to maintain the highest standards of quality service, ethical practice and yet produce effective outcomes within a highly pressured and sometimes challenging environment ... from right here in London, Joanna Foy of the London Metropolitan Police."

Not only an award but _the_ award of the night? Standing without thought, Greg turned, grinning at a flustered-looking Joanna, raising his hands as he clapped them together hard and loud.

Her eyes met his and he could see she was already close to tears, leaning down, he kissed her perfumed cheek "Don't cry or Beth will never let you hear the end of it."

"Oh, _you_." Bright-eyed and smiling, Joanna rested her fingers briefly on the side of his face before turning towards the front of the room to tumultuous applause. Taking the envelope, Joanna was passed a small hand microphone.

"As with all awards of this nature, it's actually the result of many people working to achieve many objectives. I simply happened to be in the right place at the right time to bring the efforts of my predecessors to fruition. I am deeply honoured to be recognised by the BACP, though the recognition must be shared among all my colleagues at the Met. On their behalf, I thank you very much."

Returning to the table to more rousing applause, Joanna pressed her palms to her heated face as Greg stood and gave her a one-armed hug before pulling out her chair.

"Bloody brilliant you are, I told you so."

"What's in the envelope, Joanna?" Juliet Hardacre's long narrow face was alight with curiosity.

"Absolutely no idea, but I'm about to find out," Joanna laughed as she ripped the paper open with her thumb. Inside, there were several individual papers which she drew out onto the table.

The first was a cheque for £300 made out to her directly, an unexpected though pleasant surprise. The second was a book token to the value of £500 from Waterstones Bookshops which was a very a very useful addition, especially given the cost of new publications in professional fields. The third paper was thicker and folded in half to fit in the envelope. Unfolded, it was a headed letter from the Lime House Hotel and Spa set in the middle of the New Forest, less than two hours from London. The letter confirmed a pre-paid weekend for two in the Lake Cabin in the hotel's forest grounds to be enjoyed at some point within the following twelve months.

"This has to be worth a lot of money," Joanna frowned a little as she re-read the letter detailing all the amenities. Spa treatments and massage and all meals paid for the entire weekend. There were even walks in the forest to see the wild ponies that lived in the hotel grounds.

"And don't even think of refusing it," Greg stood to get more drinks. A faint noise to his left showed waiting staff sliding back long partitions separating a table-filled side section down the length of the hall. The tables were covered with platters of foods and the warm scent of heated savouries filled the air. "And dinner is served," he smiled. "You got enough room in your bag for all that stuff?" he asked, eyeing the small clutch she'd brought with her for the evening. "Or would you like me to keep it safe?" he patted his jacket pocket.

"Oh, would you?" Joanna looked faintly pleased, handing him the paperwork. "Shall we get something to eat?"

The buffet-style dinner was an elegant blend of the conventional and the exotic. As everyone returned to their tables with plates of food, Greg saw that Christopher Hardacre had seated himself the other side of Joanna and was busily chatting with her. Knowing that she wasn't likely to put up with being monopolised for long, he turned his attention to Juliet Hardacre, asking about the time the three of them were at university together. It seemed that Joanna had been much more outgoing back then, though being a young widow with three small children was bound to change anyone's lifestyle. Mark Gutamari had gone off to speak to someone he knew at another table and so Sara joined in the conversation. The three of them were soon laughing at memories of college life. Turning sideways, Greg saw that Joanna was still having her ear bent by Hardacre and decided enough was enough. Excusing himself from Jo's old classmates, Greg walked around to stand behind the man's shoulder.

"Fancy getting some dessert?" he smiled at Jo. "I spotted some baklava and I know how much you like Greek food."

Looking up at him, Greg thought he saw a flash of relief cross her features, but it was gone so swiftly he couldn't be sure.

"That sounds perfect, Greg," Jo smiled down at Juliet's husband as she stood. "It was lovely talking with you, Christopher."

Allowing Greg to guide her elbow, Joanna scanned the long dessert table which did indeed have all manner of European delicacies.

"Your friend's husband seems a bit keen," he said, reaching for two plates, handing one back to Joanna.

"Yes, and I've no idea why," Jo shook her head debating whether to go for the baklava or try the Sacher Torte. Both looked divine. "I only know him through Juliet."

Glancing sideways at her expression, Greg realised Joanna was speaking the unadorned truth. She really didn't have a clue why the husband of one of her oldest friends was so interested in her. Making a sour face as he bent to help himself to a decent portion of the gloriously sticky Greek sweet, Greg kept his silence, however, you didn't get to work in police investigations for thirty years and not learn a thing or two about human behaviour. He wondered if the Hardacre's marriage was breaking down or if Juliet's husband had always been a bastard.

Almost as soon as everyone had taken their desserts, the band started playing again, louder this time and with a little more beat. By now, everyone was on their second or third round of drinks and the noise level rose accordingly. It wasn't long before the first brave souls ventured out into the middle of the empty floor to gyrate in a more-or-less sedate manner. Knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that Christopher Hardacre would be asking Jo for a dance as soon as his wife began talking with someone, Greg did the only honourable thing and asked her first.

"Come on," he said, holding out a hand. "You know Beth's going to disapprove if you don't at least make an effort."

"You and my daughter seem to be as thick as thieves these days," Joanna laughed as she took his hand and walked with him out into the rapidly filling dance floor, squeaking as Greg tugged her into his arms and whirled them both into a space. He'd never really considered himself much of a dancer but compared to some on the floor, he wasn't doing too badly. Jo didn't seem to mind either as the band changed from one number into the next.

After nearly twenty minutes, Joanna demanded they stop so she could have something to drink and, rather than leave her at the table, Greg pulled her by the hand to the bar.

"Oh, what the hell. I'd like a champagne cocktail, please," she beamed at the young bartender who smiled happily back, pulling together a bottle of the bubbly wine, cognac and a sugar lump.

"Make that two, if you don't mind." Greg wasn't usually one for elaborate drinks but tonight was the first proper night out he'd had with a woman in ... he shrugged mentally. He couldn't remember. Even before the divorce, he and Ange had stopped socialising. Tonight was special, so a cocktail he would have. He might even have two if the mood took him.

"This has been such a lovely evening," Joanna sipped her drink and smiled up at him. "And it's all thanks to you. I'd have missed out on everything if you hadn't offered to come with me."

"Let's not forget Beth who, by all accounts, is now a fully-fledged mastermind when it comes to organising things." Greg laughed, finishing the sparkling drink. "These things are pretty nice. I might have another as I'm not driving tonight."

"They are rather lovely, but never really long enough." Finishing off her own cocktail, they turned back to the bar, presenting their empty glasses

###

It was after eleven and the band was playing quieter music now as people began saying their farewells and headed for the exits. Greg was in very good spirits. He'd had a great night; managed to keep Joanna away from Christopher Hardacre for most of the evening and had enjoyed himself far more than he'd expected.

Even though the following day was Saturday and neither he nor Jo had to work, he imagined she'd not want to be back too late. As his watch ticked towards midnight, he tapped Jo's elbow as she was talking and laughing with another old friend.

"I hate to spoil the mood but is it time to think about making a move?" he asked. "We don't want you turning into a pumpkin."

"Oh. Is it that late already?" Joanna sighed and smiled at her friend. "Better go and relieve the baby sitter, I suppose." Collecting her jacket from the cloakroom, Jo slid her arm through Greg's as headed to the main exit.

"I've had a fabulous evening," she said with a sigh. "I almost don't want it to end." Detecting a note of unusual relaxation, Greg smiled. Someone had enjoyed their champagne cocktails.

"Time to go home, Cinderella," he said, offering his hand.

"Yes. You're right." They looked around for one of the many cabs patrolling the area. After the heated warmth of the packed hall, the outdoor chill was a shock to the system, and they jumped in the first vehicle that presented itself. They were hardly ten minutes into the drive home when Jo turned to look at him in the dark of the cab.

"Your place is not far from here, is it?" she asked with some purpose, as the car headed due east towards Whitechapel.

"Be driving past it in about five minutes at this rate." Greg met her eyes curiously.

"Then, and please don't laugh, but I absolutely _have_ to find a loo _really_ soon. I don't think I can wait to get home. Would you mind awfully if we stopped off at your place first?"

"It was that last cocktail that did it," he shook his head, smiling as he leaned forward to give the driver the changed directions.

The next few minutes seemed to pass with the speed of an ice-age, as Joanna's posture grew increasingly rigid. Almost leaping out of the cab in front of Greg's building, she was already in the lift before he'd closed the main doors behind him.

Doing his best not to smile at her predicament, having been in similar situations more times than he could count on nightly stake-outs, he unlocked his front door and pointed her down to the end of the passage.

"Down and to the right," he called after her, flicking all the lights on so she wouldn't stumble.

Following towards the kitchen at a much more sedate pace, Greg chuckled to himself. Filling the kettle, he thought he'd make a cup of tea now that they were here. He'd already paid off the cabbie and planned to drive Joanna across the river himself. The sound of flushing water and then the bathroom tap running made him smile again.

"Thank you so much. I don't get into such situations as a rule." Joanna sighed hugely as she walked into the kitchen, noticing her grey bowl on the table. "So you are using it."

Catching the direction of her gaze, Greg nodded, pouring boiling water into two mugs with teabags. "Course I'm using it. I told you it was a piece of art." Pulling milk from the fridge, he ditched the teabags and waved her to a seat at the table.

"I paid the cab driver off. I'll drop you down to your place as soon as you're ready to go. I just though a nice cup of tea might warm you up a bit, though you might want to use the facilities again before you leave." He kept a straight face, but it wasn't quite enough to save him from a severely jaundiced look.

"While I'm here, can I have a look around?" Joanna was already taking in the airy proportions of the kitchen and the warm floorboards. "I thought you said this place was a tip?"

"It was until our mysterious cleaning lady paid a visit." Greg stood by the door, holding his tea. "Come on then. I'll give you the tour."


	10. A Long Night

"Well the kitchen is a damn sight cleaner than it was before Rowan Good appeared, I'll give her that," Greg waved a hand around him as he reached the doorway. "Believe it or not, I wasn't even aware I had downlights until she cleaned them." He shook his head. "I'm still not a hundred percent certain what it was she actually did in here, but I remember when I came home that first night, I was pretty stunned by the difference."

"That was exactly how I felt when I walked in the front room and everything seemed to be rearranged," Joanna nodded as she followed him out into the main passage taking in the details she hadn't noticed on the way in. "These are lovely polished floorboards you have here. Did it take long to sand them back like this?"

Greg turned to meet her eyes, a vaguely sheepish look on his face. He screwed one eye closed. "It took me ages to notice them after I moved in, and when I did, they were so dirty, I honestly thought the floor was covered in old brown lino," he said. "I'd never seen them like this before, to be honest."

Arching her eyebrows and shooting him an amused look. "Don't tell me you're one of those stereotypical bachelor types," she said, a dry note of mockery in her voice. "Slobbing around until you get a girlfriend."

"I tried not to be, to be honest," Greg sipped his tea. "But things went a bit fuzzy around the edges back there for a while and I guess I didn't see how bad things actually were."

Immediately contrite, Joanna rested a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry," she said. "I was being insensitive. I understand your situation better than you might imagine."

Shrugging, Greg smiled. "It's all behind me now," he said. "And now it's like this, it's no effort at all to keep looking the way my mum would expect it to be kept."

"It looks almost as if you've got it on the market." Joanna nodded as she looked around. "It's so bright and shining. The only time you see places in this condition is when they're showing it to prospective buyers." Smiling again at the compliment, Greg led the way out past the bathroom.

"You've seen this already, I know," he said, waving at the relatively modern facilities. "It was brand-new when I moved in, but it seems to have stayed new despite me using it these last few weeks. I dunno what our favourite cleaner put on those tiles and the shower glass, but they're as shiny as they were that first night I saw them. Just like new."

"It's the same in my kitchen," Joanna looked around, taking in the spartan fixtures and utter lack of frills. "Nobody could mistake this for anything other than bachelor digs."

"I'll have you know I have style," Greg leaned away, mock-defensively, a hard done-by expression on his face. "I have taste."

"Not saying you don't, you silly man," Joanna laughed as she walked into the front room, standing with her hands on her hips as she looked around the room. "Well, well _well_ ..."

"I don't have a lot of stuff ..." Greg had a stab at defending the honour of bachelor males everywhere.

"This is a very evocative room," Joanna turned to him decisively. "This is a room of someone with nothing to hide, nothing to apologise for," she nodded sagely, taking in the dark colours and natural textures. The black of his old laptop stood out against the dull gleam of the russet coffee table. "This room definitely suits you."

It sounded like a compliment, though Greg was taking nothing for granted at this point. "You like this?" he waved a hand around generally.

Nodding, Joanna gave him a more appraising look. "This is not a side of you I've seen before," she said slowly. "This is ..." she gazed around the room's uncompromising austerity, nodding slowly. "Surprisingly sexy."

"Surprisingly? Right then. I can't let a line like that pass me by." Greg leaned down and tapped his laptop awake. With a few practiced scrolls and hitting a short sequence of keys, he'd set one of his music files to play. Sliding up the volume, he left the computer on the coffee table and held out his hand just as a slow piece of bluesy-jazz filled the room.

"Care for a dance?"

Smiling up at him, Joanna laughed, sliding one hand in his, the other moving to his shoulder. "You are such a strange man," she said, as he placed a light hand near her spine.

"Is that good strange or ..." he got no further as she scowled at him with fierce eyes. He laughed, swirling them both into steps that needed no remembering, his lack of furniture an active advantage at this point.

"I don't think this is the right music for a _tango_ ," Joanna could hardly breathe for laughing as Greg dipped her yet again, her hair coming loose and brushing the floor.

"Anything can be a tango if you try hard enough," he pulled her upright, pausing to move the silky mass away from her eyes.

Letting him go in order to put herself back to rights, Joanna was still giggling as she gave up trying to put her hair back up and instead pulled all the clips out and shook it free.

"You have the most lovely ..." Greg's gaze followed the glossy waves as he tucked one behind her ear and everything went very still between them. Joanna's eyes blinked suddenly wide and met his, the force of her stare punching the air from his lungs. He stood, shocked for a moment, before dragging a breath down a suddenly parched and burning throat. "You are lovely," he husked.

In silence, Jo lifted her hand until he felt the faintest pressure of warm fingers splayed against the side of his face. Greg's eyelids closed, his eyelashes brushing the tips of her nails. "Lovely," he whispered, opening his eyes to see her face close to his, her expression wondering and vaguely uncertain. Capturing her hand, he brought it to his lips, the soft hitch in her breathing loud in the quiet room. All he wanted to do right now, the _only_ thing he could think of doing was to slide an arm gently around her waist and tug her closer still. "You are so ..." Greg realised he was rambling and found he didn't care. They were so close that he could feel the rapid beating of her heart and he didn't care about that either as he lowered his head and brushed her lips with his own.

A wave of subtle perfume engulfed his senses and Greg felt his head spin, ever so gently. He smiled, leaning back until he could see Jo's eyes which were wide and round and very dark. Unsure whether to try for a second kiss, a proper one, Greg felt Jo's arms sliding around his neck, pulling him back down to her as she kissed him carefully, assessingly, before letting him go.

"What is this?" she whispered. "What are we doing?"

"You're a lovely woman, I'm a man with a sexy front room," he smiled into her eyes. "It just felt like the thing to do, is all."

"There's something odd in the air tonight." Joanna shook her head but did not move away from him. "First Christopher Hardacre and now you … it's not as if I've been doing anything different."

"Hardacre is not a nice man and was trying it on," Greg paused and smiled again. "Whereas I _am_ a nice man."

"What do you mean, Christopher was trying it on? Trying what on?" Joanna sounded more confused than anything else. "He's Juliet's husband."

"And you are single, very attractive and a little too trusting." Greg's thumb traced across her cheek. "Which is why I said he wasn't nice." He sighed at the warmth of her body resting against his. He could try and take the issue further tonight, but something told him not to rush it. Nor was he entirely sure what it was he actually wanted. And Joanna had to get home to the kids. Now was not the moment for anything.

"It's nearly midnight," he murmured. "Pumpkin time."

"Yes, you're quite right." Joanna stepped back, straightening her shoulders and taking a slow breath. Leaning down to the table, Greg tapped the music silent. Though there were no words between them there was a warmth that had nothing to do with champagne.

###

The porch light was on when the BMW pulled up in the sleeping court. There were other lights in other houses, but all Greg wanted was to see Jo home safely and then head back home himself for a glass of something decidedly stronger than wine.

Joanna's key rattled in the lock and, as the door opened, she turned, smiling, to thank him and wish him a good night.

"Hi, did you have a nice ..." the babysitter leaned her head out of the front room door just as there was a series of heavy thuds, followed by a terrified scream and the panicked wailing of a frightened child. All three adults rushed to the noise, to see a howling Max, in his pyjamas lying half upside down at the bottom of the stairs, his face covered in blood. He had probably heard his mother come home and rushed down to see her.

" _Oh Maxi_ , what have you _done?!"_ Joanna was about to pick him up when both Greg and the babysitter stopped him.

"He might have damaged his neck," Greg pushed passed her in the tight space. "I need lights please, and someone call an ambulance," he instructed, kneeling and placing a flat hand on either side of the screaming child's head and neck, keeping him still.

"Max, _Max_. This is Inspector Greg, Max. We're going to sort you out in a minute, but you have to keep still for me for a minute buddy and try and breathe properly if you can. Can you breathe for me?"

The wailing didn't abate but the volume lowered a fraction as the child's howls became interspersed with rough, hiccupping breaths.

"Ambulance on its way. They said five minutes, and they'll be going to Guy's Emergency." The babysitter looked rattled. "He was in bed asleep not fifteen minutes ago," she sounded distraught but not panicky.

Looking across at a white-faced Joanna, Greg kept his hands where they were. "You've got a few minutes to stick on a pair of jeans and a clean top," he said, observing with some dismay that her pretty dress was smeared and spattered with the blood that still ran down Max's face. "Looks like he's probably got a broken nose, not sure what else," he said. "They'll be keeping him in at least for a night or two, so you might want to shove a few of his things in a bag while you're at it."

"Do what Greg tells you to do, darling. I'll be back in a minute," she murmured, carefully wiping tears away from the child's face. Nodding at Greg without speaking, Joanna took a harried backwards look at her injured offspring before running swiftly up the stairs to her bedroom.

"It's okay, Max," Greg crooned quietly to the shaking, crying child, wanting nothing more than to pick him up and hold him until the tears stopped, but he didn't dare. "Looks like you'll be having a ride in an ambulance with the flashing lights and the siren going. The ambulance men will be here and make the pain go away in a minute. You're being very brave."

" _Mummm_ ..." Max managed to breathe enough to call for his mother, his voice thick with blood and tears.

"I'm here, baby, I'm right here," Jo threw a small canvas bag to the ground as she knelt beside her child, stroking his forehead and reaching for his hand. "He's so cold," she whispered, turning frantic eyes to Greg just as the first sounds of an ambulance siren could be heard approaching the houses.

"I'll let them in," the babysitter, Greg noticed, though shaken, was still being practical about things. She'd make a good copper.

"It's probably shock," Greg spoke quietly, as much for Jo as for Max himself. "Apart from anything else, he's had a huge fright."

A cold blast of night air told them the front door had been pushed wide open, swiftly followed by the sound of heavy footsteps as two uniformed paramedics wearing the dark green overalls of London's ambulance service.

"I've kept him still and got him breathing a bit, but not much more," Greg gingerly relinquished his place at Max's side to the younger of the two ambulance men, who stepped in to maintain Max's neck position until his partner was able to lift the boy's entire upper body. An inflatable neck brace was immediately pressured gently around the child's upper chest and face rendering him completely immobile. With swift and practiced skill, they supported the child's small frame as they slid him directly onto a collapsed trolley, tightening several velcro straps the second their hands were free. The younger paramedic was already busy with a complicated-looking stethoscope and a small blood pressure cuff, talking to the child in a low, cheerful voice.

"You his mum?" the older man turned to look at Joanna who nodded shakily as she watched Max being checked over. "We'll get your lad settled in the van and then you can hop in, right? There's a few questions we need you to answer for us, but right now, does he have any problems with any medication? Is there any ongoing medical condition of his we need to know about?"

Leaving Jo to deal with the questions as Max was being put into the ambulance, Greg took a moment to wash his hands in the kitchen sink. His suit was bloodied almost up to the elbows. Grabbing a tea towel to dry himself, he headed back out to the front door just as Jo was ready to get in beside her son.

"It'll be all right," he said, pressing a kiss to her cold cheek. "I'll be right behind you as soon as I've organised the babysitter to stay for the night. I'll be there only a few minutes after you get there, so don't worry. He's in the best of hand now; these guys are real experts."

"Oh god, Greg. If I hadn't gone out to that thing tonight …"

"Now, stop that right this second," Greg held her shoulders until she met his gaze. "Max could have done this at any time and you going out has nothing to do with this, do you understand? _Nothing_."

Nodding, Joanna smiled weakly before turning to run out to the ambulance. By this time, there was a small audience as Jack and Beth were now standing it the hallway, wide-eyed and wide awake.

"Is mum okay?" Beth stared out through the still-open front door.

"Into the sitting room," Greg ushered them in with a wave of his arms. "I'll explain everything in a minute." As the front door closed behind him, Greg turned to look at the baby sitter.

"Sorry," he said. "I don't know your name."

"Jan," the young woman took a deep breath. "Jan Swales. I'm fully insured by the agency and got my St John's and everything," she lifted her eyebrows. "I take it you'd like me to stay for the night while you go to the hospital with your wife and child?"

Not bothering to put her straight, Greg nodded. "Are you able to stay? I know it's a huge ask but this is an exceptional circumstance and …" Jan lifted her hand to stop him.

"Don't worry. We've all been trained what to do in an emergency like this. My agency will require a premium payment and if someone is still needed after half-seven tomorrow morning, I'll need to call in to get a relief, alright?"

"Jan, you're a saint, thank you. Yes of course, whatever fee you or your agency wants, I'll happily pay. If you can give me your number, I'll call and let you know if you should organise a relief sitter in the morning. I just want to speak to the kids and then I'll be off to hospital as well. Cheers for this, it's really appreciated."

Pausing for a moment to remove his bloodied jacket and roll up his partially stained shirt sleeves, Greg took a deep breath and followed Jan into the front room. Both Beth and Jack were sitting on the very edge of the settee, clearly anxious. There was no easy way to tell them. He sat down on the coffee table and held one of their hands in each of his.

"Max fell down the stairs when he heard your mum coming home tonight; he was probably running to meet her. He's banged his head and his nose is bleeding a lot and there may be other things he's hurt, but we don't know. You heard the ambulance? They've taken your brother off to Guy's hospital for an X-ray and a bit of a check-up, just to make absolutely sure he's okay, and your mum has gone as well to be with him 'cos he's a bit frightened by the whole thing."

"Max is still a baby," Beth nodded knowingly. "No wonder he's scared."

"Yeah, exactly," Greg looked serious. "Now I want to go to the hospital as well in case your mum needs any help with anything, but Jan here has agreed to stay for the rest of the night in case either of you need anything or feel upset, alright?"

"We don't need a baby sitter really," Jack sat up straight, his eyes flicking between Greg and the woman who'd made sure he went to bed at precisely eight o'clock.

"Yeah, nice try Jack, but it ain't gonna happen tonight. Your mum would go spare if she thought you two were here all by yourselves, especially if she's already worried about your brother. Look, the best thing you guys can do for the next couple of days is not to cause her the slightest bit of trouble, okay? Whatever she says to do, just this once, be gentle with her, alright? She doesn't need any arguments back here if she's stuck in hospital, worried about Max."

"Will you come back and let us know how Max is?" There was an edge of fretfulness in Beth's question. "We'd like to know what's going on."

"I will, babe," Greg smiled at her, squeezing her hand. "I promise, as soon as we know what the situation is. Is there anything you need before I go and see your mum at the hospital?"

Standing, Jack put his arms around Greg's neck and squeezed tight. "Give mum a hug from me," he said. "Tell her we'll both be good until she comes home."

"I know you will Jack, I know." Looking up at the baby sitter, he sighed. "Now you two should head off back to bed and try and get as much sleep as you can because you're going to have a lot of work to do keeping this place tidy until your brother gets better and your mum can relax a bit. Off you go now. Jan will be here all night if you need anything or want to talk about anything. Beth, you have my number if you need to get hold of me for a really good reason."

Getting another hug, this time from Beth, Greg stood and watched at the two elder Foys headed slowly back up to bed.

"Here's my card." Greg handed Jan one of his Met cards. "If anything else happens tonight or if either of those two get really upset, give me a shout and I'll get back here as quick as I can. You okay to stay, or do you want to phone in for a replacement?" Belatedly, Greg assessed the expression of the young woman in front of him. This kind of thing probably didn't happen very often, so it'd be no surprise if she was feeling a little distressed as well.

"I'm fine, Mr Foy." Though she was doing well, Greg saw she was clearly a touch off her stride, or she'd have noticed the name on his card was not Foy. Straightening her back, Jan smiled calmly. "I'll make sure those two don't get themselves all upset or anything, and I'll be here when you call, so don't worry about anything except getting your boy right."

"Thanks, Jan. You're a godsend. I'll be in touch as soon as I know what's happening, but call me if you need to." Grabbing his jacket, Greg headed back out to his car and hit the road, aiming for Guy's. He'd be there in under ten minutes.

###

He'd been around enough emergency wards to last a lifetime, but at least he knew who to ask for and what to say. In a very short time, Greg was being escorted up to the Radiology department on the second floor, only to see an exhausted-looking Joanna sitting outside the closed white door of an X-ray room.

"They said I had to wait out here until they'd finished all the scans," she said, reaching for his hand as he sat down beside her. "They wouldn't confirm anything, but they think he's got a broken nose and his wrist hurts too, so they also think that might be broken as well. Oh god, Greg ... he's only a _baby_ ..."

"Which means he'll heal in a flash and be bouncing around in a cast, showing off to all his mates before you know it." Greg wrapped an arm around her shoulders. It was only then that Joanna realised he was in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, carrying his jacket and that everything was spotted with blood. Her expression added dismay to the mix.

"Your lovely suit ... I'll get it properly cleaned, and ..."

"You'll not worry about it at all, is what you'll do," Greg gave her a gentle squeeze. "Jack and Beth both asked me to give you a hug. The sitter is staying overnight and, if neither of us can get back there before the early morning, then Jan's going to phone for a replacement so that your other two won't be left to fend for themselves. Jack was fairly adamant he didn't actually need a baby-sitter, but I talked him out of that idea. Now, how do you fancy a cup of hospital coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate? You'll need something in your stomach to keep the wobbles away, I know that for a fact."

"Tea would be nice, if it's not too much bother. I'll stay here, in case ..." her words tailed off as a young, tired-looking and heavily bespectacled blonde woman approached them. Her name badge read 'Dr. P. Ricci'.

"Mrs and Mrs Foy?" she smiled briefly as she reached the two of them. "I'm Patricia Ricci, the on-call paediatrician. I've got Max's results here," she tapped a clipboard as both Greg and Joanna stood to shake her hand. After being assumed to be Joanna's husband so many times in the last hour, Greg felt there was little point in explaining his name was not Foy.

Reaching down to hold Greg's fingers, Joanna also held her breath.

"There doesn't seem to be anything terribly worrying, or at least, not anything that we've been able to find so far. Your child has small fractures to his nose and wrist, both of which are fairly clean and relatively minor injuries, though there'll be some localised swelling for a few days. He's also received a bump to the head which has left some swelling and bruising. The x-rays show no other breaks or fractures in either his limbs or chest or skull, and while we're fairly sure there's no other complications, we'd like to run an MRI to check for any internal and soft-tissue injuries to be on the safe side. We'd also prefer to keep him in for a day or so, to make sure there's no unexpected bleeding or latent concussion. Now that we've been able to clear a minor hematoma, a very small blockage of clotted blood, Max's breathing is much easier and he's able to sit up and talk. As soon as we've got the all clear from the MRI team, we'll sedate him with a general anaesthesia suitable for children and an orthopaedic specialist will repair both injuries." The doctor arched her eyebrows and smiled reassuringly.

"It all sounds a little worse than it is, really, and in skilled hands both procedures take only a very short time to complete, especially with the new polymer casts we use these days," she said. "If we don't find any other problems, he'll be eating ice-cream tomorrow and can very likely go home on Sunday morning. He'll be sore and a bit achy for a few days, but children of his age heal incredibly quickly and we can take care of any residual pain or discomfort fairly easily."

" _Thank_ _God_. That's a huge relief, thank you so much." Joanna sagged a little against Greg as she spoke with the doctor. He tightened the arm around her shoulders. "When can we see him?

"He should be coming out any second now, actually." Doctor Ricci turned towards the heavy white door as it slid open, allowing a wheeled bed to emerge. Sitting up in the middle of the bed, propped up with a small mountain of pillows and covered lightly with a white hospital blanket, was a very sorry-looking Max. As soon as he saw both his mother and Greg waiting outside, he immediately considered crying again but thought better of the notion. He was too sore to cry. His face was flushed and unhappy, his nose was red and puffy and his left arm was in a small sling to keep everything still.

"Oh, Max, what a daft thing to do." Jo bent down to give her youngest a gentle kiss and held his hand. As the boy glanced up at Greg, he smiled.

"I fell down the stairs, Mum," Max spoke to his mother but his eyes were on Greg standing at her side. "I'm sorry if I got blood everywhere but I'll clean it up when I get home, I promise."

"Don't worry about that, lad." Greg wondered why the child was staring at him so seriously. Perhaps he didn't like to see a man with his arm around his mum; kids were often very possessive, he knew that. Casually, he dropped the hand resting on Joanna's shoulders and moved away from her side.


	11. Assumptions and Deliberations

They'd taken Max into theatre. The MRI had shown nothing untoward for which everyone, other Max, too impressed by the enormous machine to care, was appropriately grateful. While they were waiting for Jo and a nurse to manoeuvre the child gingerly into one of the open-backed hospital gowns, a waiting theatre technician told him that children of Max's age often fell over and broke small bones, due to insufficient bone mass. Greg was only half listening to her as a wave of tiredness had him blinking like an owl. If he was going to be any use to anyone, he needed coffee and he needed it now. He drew in a sharp breath and rubbed his eyes.

"Would you mind letting Joanna know that I'm off to get something hot to drink?" he asked when the woman looked at him, concerned. "After all the drama tonight, I'm suddenly feeling a bit tired."

She smiled. "I hear you," she said. "Best to go to the café, one floor down. The stuff in the vending machines isn't anywhere near strong enough to help," she added. "Trust me, hospital staff know all about staying awake. I'll let your wife know where you've gone."

Nodding silently, Greg trudged to the nearest lift, too drained even to look for the stairs. On reaching the first floor, he followed his nose to a still-bustling cafeteria. As he waited to be served, Greg checked his watch: it was well gone three in the morning. No wonder he was feeling it.

Deciding to have a sit down with a coffee here before taking another one up to Jo while they waited for Max to come out of theatre, Greg dumped sugar into his disposable cup and sank into the hard plastic seat, stretching his legs out in front of him. Rubbing his eyes again, he yawned, glancing around at the people doing much the same as he in the incongruously lit café. There were a number of staff in operating scrubs with their hair covered by light blue paper caps and nurses on their break in ward uniforms. There were a few couples of different ages; an elderly woman being comforted by a younger one, a couple of young lads who looked like rugby-players. There were even a few solitary men life him, tired and needing a stimulant to keep them awake for somebody other than themselves.

Sipping the hot and not unpleasant drink, Greg suddenly thought about the strange look Max had given him when he emerged from the X-ray room. What odd thoughts had gone through the child's mind? Why had he smiled like that? His thoughts drifted back to earlier in the evening when everyone from the cabbie to the babysitter had assumed he was Jo's ... what? Her partner? Husband? Did it even matter?

Sipping the coffee, Greg realised that it _did_ matter. It mattered a lot. Jo had asked him what they were doing after they'd kissed in his flat. Other than the obvious, he wasn't actually sure what they had been doing. Fooling around after a little too much champagne, yeah, sure. But what _else_ was it? Sitting in the middle of a half-filled cafeteria in the middle of the night, he tried to think back to the moment he'd started being attracted to Joanna Foy and chewed his bottom lip when he realised he couldn't remember _not_ being attracted to her. Almost right from the start, from the first time they'd met, he'd acknowledged her as being a superior individual: caring and brave and self-sacrificing for all the right reasons. Those were all admirable qualities, but nobody fell in love with ...

His heart seemed to slow, then thumped hard, just the once, but hard enough to make him pause his deliberations. Since when had he started thinking in terms of a romantic relationship with Joanna? Neither of them had said anything about things even remotely associated with a relationship. They'd only known each other for a couple of months! Yes, of course, she'd been glad of his help with things since they'd first met, and he'd been happy to assist and felt wanted and warmed by her and her kids ... The kids. All three of them, all special in their own ways, _yes_. But nothing had been said ... not even _thought_ about, at least not by him, and not before tonight. _Not openly thought about_ , he amended.

Sitting back in his hard plastic chair, Greg frowned. Was he falling for Joanna Foy? Her children already held significant places of interest in his life and were important to him in their own individual ways, but that was simply because they'd all needed his help in one way or another and besides, he liked kids generally, didn't he? He drank his sweet coffee and thought some more, though his brain felt sluggish and uncooperative. What was he even trying to think about? Oh yeah, Jo and the kids. He liked each of them for different reasons ... but how much did he _actually_ like them? Where was he going with all this liking? Why was he even bothering himself with these kind of complicated questions at three in the morning? He yawned again and blinked wearily. He needed another coffee and he should get back with one for Jo as well. The questions could wait.

###

He eventually caught up with her at the end of a narrow corridor, in one of the small and relatively private recovery rooms, as Max slowly regained consciousness. Handing her a hot cup of coffee, Greg leaned against the wall behind him and watched mother and son. Max was comfortably asleep, his breathing strong and regular. His face, though still swollen, had already lost some of its reddened puffiness. There was a heavy strip of reinforced white tape across his face from one cheek to the other, holding his nose absolutely immobile. The boy's left arm was propped up on a pillow, his forearm, wrist and hand encapsulated in a stiff grey plastic cast overlying a soft inner lining of mesh that cushioned everything into a firm stability. The child's expression in sleep seemed peaceful and untroubled; it seemed there was little pain, which was a relief.

Flicking his eyes to Joanna's face, Greg saw that she was not so tranquil. There were faint traces of tears still on her cheeks and her eyes flickered backwards and forwards over her son's sleeping form. Greg could only imagine her mingled sense of anxiety, guilt and relief at the situation. He got the distinct feeling that she was still troubled about the evening's drama and it dawned on him that he didn't much like her being upset.

"You heard what the doc said," he lifted a second chair into place beside Jo's. "Max'll be eating ice cream and bouncing around before you know it. He'll be the envy of all his mates and the story of him falling down the stairs will probably end up being embellished a bit more every time he tells it. You might want to call his school and let them know the real cause for the casts before he gets a chance to tell everyone about being chased by robbers with guns in a burning house."

"I know," Jo turned to meet his eyes, and yes, she did look troubled. "It's just that none of them have ever been hurt like this before, and that this happened on the night I decide to go out ..." Her eyes glinted with tears again as she shook her head. Greg inhaled slowly.

"Now listen," he said, reaching for her free hand and folding it inside one of his. "This could have happened at any time. It could even happen again if Max is so bloody daft as to leap down the stairs like he did, no, _listen_ ," he said, stopping Joanna's protestation in its tracks. Greg lifted his other hand to cup the side of her face, tilting it until she met his gaze. "The only fault here lies with Max. He did something stupid and has paid the price for his action. It's called 'growing up' and while he probably won't do anything exactly like this again, he'll do other stupid, dangerous things and will, quite likely, get into all sorts of trouble when he does them. And so will Jack and so will Beth. It's part of learning how to be an adult and sometimes, we have to make the wrong decisions before we know to make the right ones." Greg smoothed Jo's cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. "You cannot take that freedom of choice away from your kids. You have to allow them to become who they are going to be, in whatever way they end up doing things, and trying to take responsibility for their poor decisions is as bad as taking responsibility for their good ones. It can't be done, Jo. You have to allow them to fly and fall by themselves, sometimes."

"I know," Joanna sighed and nodded fractionally. "I've said almost those exact words to other people so many times but I never thought I'd need to hear them myself." She closed her eyes, resting her face momentarily in the soft warmth of his hand. "No wonder you're such a good policeman."

"Mind you, there's nothing stopping you reading Max the riot act once he's at home and feeling better," Greg reached down and squeezed her fingers. "Give them the old 'safety in the home' lecture that we got as kids, especially now that they're old enough to understand that reckless behaviour has dangerous consequences."

"They'd probably listen to it better coming from you," Joanna smiled as tension gradually eased from her shoulders. "All three hold you in enormous regard, you know."

"They're good kids," Greg turned to watch the sleeping child stir under the warm hospital blanket. "He'll be awake in a minute."

On cue, a recovery ward nurse popped into the small room. Checking the time on the wall clock, she made a small notation on Max's chart, just as the boy blinked his eyes open.

"How do you feel, Max?" the nurse smiled down at the boy. "Do you have any pain anywhere? Do you feel sick or would you like a drink?"

"My arm's aching a bit and I'd like a drink, please." The child's voice was low and husky, but the words were clear and not slurred.

"I'll be right back with some Panadol and water and a Coke." Smiling again at the seated adults, the nurse left the room as swiftly as she'd entered.

"How are you feeling, love?" Joanna leaned closer on the bed. "How's the pain?"

"S'a bit sore on my arm." Max looked down at the pillow beside him and a faint smile curved his mouth. "Everyone at school is gonna be dead jealous."

"You're going to have a nice pair of black eyes as well, old son," Greg grinned down at the boy. "Everyone's going to think you've been in a boxing match with Callum Smith."

Turning to look at his mother and then at Greg, Max smiled properly, a cheeky twitch of a grin. "Am I alright now?" he asked. "Can we go home?"

"Your mum's going home to talk to your brother and sister and get some rest, but you and me are going to hang out here together for a bit, Max, until the nurses say you're okay and then you can go and have a proper sleep in a proper bed."

About to say that she needed to stay and that _he_ should go home, Greg caught Joanna's gaze and smiled, shaking his head. "He isn't going anywhere and you have two others who probably need a bit of reassurance from their mum," he said softly. "Your lad here is likely going to get transferred into a children's ward where he'll conk out like a baby and sleep until morning. You go home, sort out your other two and get some kip. Sort out the babysitter as well, and then come back and take over. I've had so much coffee in the last couple of hours, I doubt I'd be able to sleep now even if I wanted."

"Are you sure?" Jo assessed his expression before glancing down at Max who was dozing again. "Really sure?"

"Positive." Greg nodded, reaching for his wallet and extracted a couple of notes. "Here's enough for a taxi both ways. You toddle off and leave me and Max here have a chat, man to man, like."

"I'm not sure I want to leave him," Joanna stood reluctantly. "What if he gets upset again?"

"He won't, not now." Greg squeezed her hand. "He knows the worst is behind him and you heard him; he's already thinking what stories to tell his mates about the war-wounds. Seriously, you nip off and get your head down for a few hours. I'll stay here and make sure he's settled in a proper bed. Call me before you come back later in the morning and I can tell you if he's been moved and his bed number." Smiling easily, Greg nodded at the door. "I've done this enough times with the people on my own team," he scratched the end of his nose. "I know exactly what the process is and there's really nothing else you can do right now except sit beside him and watch him sleep. And even _I_ can do that without messing it up. I promise you, it'll be fine."

"It's alright, Mum," Max mumbled beneath closed eyes. "Inspector Greg promises."

Seeing her child was once again drifting into sleep, Joanna took a deep breath and nodded once, decisively. "Okay, I'll do that. I expect the other two are worried about their brother, but you must swear that if anything happens, you'll call me immediately."

"Promise." Greg folded his arms and relaxed back in the armchair beside the bed. "I'll be with him all the way."

"Okay then. I won't be away long." Joanna leaned over and pressed a light kiss to her boy's brow before resting a hand briefly on Greg's shoulder as she left the room, the faint pressure of her touch conveying far more than mere thanks.

"Okeydokey Maxi boy. It's just thee and me now, for a while." Greg looked at the drowsing child, wondering how long it would be before he tried to pull the tape off his face. If there was one thing Greg knew all about, it was how boys thought. He smiled to himself as the nurse walked back in with a glass of water, a cold can of Coke and a tiny plastic container holding two small white capsules.

"Asleep again?" The nursed turned to smile at the man she assumed to be the child's father. "He'll pick right up after a good night's rest," she said. "Normally, any children we get here in Guy's emergency are transferred to the Evelina Children's Hospital down the road by St. Thomas's, but it's hardly worth it given that we'll be discharging him in twenty-four hours or less," she said. "Here's a couple of children's Panadol for him when he's ready for some pain relief, though sleep is probably for the best if he can get it." The nurse looked at Greg with a critical eye. "And you look nearly out on your feet as well. You really don't need to stay if you'd like to go home and get some sleep yourself," she said. "I'll be in and out of here with your boy until the shift changes at seven o'clock in the morning. You don't need to stay."

Looking up into the sincere gaze of the night nurse and then across to the sleeping child, Greg thought for a moment. "Yeah, I do," he shrugged as the nurse headed for the door. "I promised."

The room was warm and quiet and Greg found himself relaxing back into the upholstered chair. If Max was going to sleep, he might even be able to catch a few minutes kip himself, something he'd long ago learned how to do during the interminable hours of an overnight stakeout.

"My mum really likes you, I can tell." Max's eyes were wide open and staring his way as Greg turned his head. "She likes it when you help her with things like tonight. I think she would have been scared otherwise, 'cos she gets worried about stuff, 'specially about Beth, 'cos she's a girl." The child yawned and blinked sleepily.

"Is your arm hurting you, Max?" Greg leaned closer to examine the boy's expression beneath the concealing slab of tape. "The nurse left some tablets if you've got any pain. You want me to help you with them now before you go back to sleep again?"

"My head hurts a bit," Max frowned as his uninjured hand cautiously explored the top of his head. "I've got a big bump."

"Right then, we'll get these into you and you can have a drink of water or Coke if you're thirsty." Greg reached for the bed's automatic lifting control on its long cable, pressing the 'Up' icon, slowly bringing the head of Max's bed into a more upright position.

"Cor, that's dead bangin'," the boy smiled. "Can I have a go?"

"Maybe tomorrow, when your head isn't hurting so much." Greg cracked the Coke open as he held out the small container of pills. "Take one at a time and have a swig of this to wash them down," he said, watching the child for any evidence of difficulty swallowing the medication. "Do you need to go to the toilet before you go to sleep?"

"Nah. Mum took me earlier. It's my birthday next week," he added, out of the blue.

"Is it?" Greg returned to his armchair. "You'll be seven, right?"

"Yeah. Mum said she'll take me and my friends back to that pizza place for a birthday treat, an' we can all make our own special pizzas. I'm going to have a red one this time," he yawned again. "But I'm having my cake at home. Will you come and have some of my cake, Inspector Greg?"

Smiling as he lowered the bed back down and twitched the child's blanket into place, Greg retook his seat. "Yes Max, I'll have some of your cake if your mum says I can."

"She will. You promise?"

"I promise Max. Go to sleep."

"Okay. Night Dad."

Greg's eyes blinked wide.

###

It was right on eight-thirty the next morning when Joanna made her way back to the hospital. Having already phoned Greg just after seven, she was aware that Max was being kept in the same small room he was in the previous night, and would likely stay there unless the space was needed, in which case, they'd move him over to the children's hospital for the Saturday night.

"The good news is that Max slept well and has not required any further pain relief after last night," the ward nurse guided Joanna back the way she'd left several hours earlier. Though she was paler than usual with shadows beneath her eyes, Jo felt a great deal better after a little sleep and a hot shower. She'd thanked Jan the babysitter profusely and sent her off with a large tip, but instead of leaving Beth and Jack at home, she'd brought them with her to see their brother.

"It's just around there," the nurse indicated the little room tucked away at the end of a series of similar rooms. "See if Max feels up to a shower or wants to wait until he gets home. The doctor will be coming to see him around nine and you can discuss any questions or concerns you have with her then."

"Thank you," Joanna was grateful for the thoughtfulness. "Everyone has been so kind and helpful, though it'll be good to get Max back home." Turning towards the room she'd left nearly five hours earlier, she wrinkled her forehead as she saw Jack and Beth standing in the open doorway wearing matching grins. Beth beckoned her, at the same time raising an upright index finger to her lips. On reaching the doorway and peering inside, Jo found herself smiling as well. Max was fast asleep, still lying on his back in a nest of pillows, snoring faintly, though this was not the cause of the Foy's amusement.

Also asleep, his head cushioned on a wadded-up pillow next to Max's, his upper body half-sprawled, half-resting against the slightly raised bed, Greg was out for the count.

Joanna silently ushered her two eldest back into the corridor. "You pair stay here while I go and get Greg a coffee," she murmured. "He's been up all night with your brother so it's no wonder he's dropped off. Don't wake him up with any noise, okay? And no laughing at him either," she paused, before handing her daughter her mobile. "Though if you want to take a picture of them asleep together, I won't mind," she added, raising a finger to her lips. "Quiet now and stay here until I get back. I'll only be a couple of minutes."

Peering around the side of the door, Jack plastered both hands tight across his face so as not to giggle and wake the sleeping beauties. Turning and grinning at his sister who pulled him out of the way as she leaned in and snapped off several shots. Together, they leaned back against the outside wall of the room and muffled sniggers behind their fingers.

They were still grinning at each other when their mother returned bearing two cups of steaming coffee. Standing a little way off in the corridor, Joanna greeted her children in a slightly louder-than-usual tone.

"Yes, Jack," she said, winking at him. "The nurse did say it was the room at the end. I was here last night with your brother ..." After waiting a few seconds, Joanna felt Greg had had sufficient warning and without further ado, walked into the room.

Once more leaning back in the upholstered chair with folded arms and a suspiciously wide-awake expression, Greg's vigilant demeanour was betrayed by a vertical tuft of hair on the side of his head. Keeping her expression neutral, Joanna handed him both cups as she went to inspect her youngest offspring in closer detail. His forehead felt warm but not overly hot. The cold clammy feeling from the previous night had gone and Max appeared to be sleeping perfectly normally with no sign of suffering or distress on his face. The knot in her stomach, present since the first of his screams the previous evening, finally unravelled. As if knowing he was under intense maternal scrutiny, her son's eyes cracked open.

"I'm hungry." A sign in its own right that things were becoming as they should be, Joanna smoothed her boy's hair gently away from his forehead.

"And good morning to you as well," she smiled, kissing his head. "You shall have something to eat as soon as the nurse says you can," she added, noting the bruises already appearing under and around the curve of his eyes. Greg was right: she would have to let Max's school know before he started making up any dramatic stories. "How do you feel now? Does it hurt anywhere?"

"No. Only in my tummy because it's empty." The unlikely combination of Max's grin, the wide strip of heavy tape and the incipient bruising had her shaking her head, amused.

"He slept like a baby all night." Greg handed Joanna a cup back as he took a swig of the other, closing his eyes in relief as the mild stimulant did its thing. "And he snores," he added, rolling his eyes and giving Max a sideways look.

"Well, with you being awake the whole time, I'm sure it didn't bother you too much," Joanna glanced at her two eldest with wide eyes.

"When can I come home, Mum?" Max found the bed controls and was already moving himself into a more upright position. "My arm's a bit achy but I don't really hurt anywhere else."

"Let's see what the doctor says when she gets here, shall we?" Joanna knew her son's impatience of old, but they'd have to bow to medical wisdom this time, no matter their personal wishes. Turning to Greg now that she'd seen max was on the mend, she gave him a critical once-over.

"Your turn to go home and get some sleep now," she said, noticing the shadows under his eyes and his need of a shave. "Are you fit to drive yourself?"

"Yup," Greg nodded, feeling much more lively now that the fresh coffee was percolating into his bloodstream. "I wouldn't fancy tackling an epic journey in my current state, but a quick trip over the river won't be a problem in the least."

Jack looked up from admiring his brother's various injuries. "Can we go home with Greg too?" he asked. "Hanging around here is going to be boring."

"If Jack's going home with Greg, I'd like to go too," Beth wasn't terribly interested in staying either now that she'd seen for herself that Max was fine. The general hospital smell was getting to her and she wrinkled her nose. Seeing Jo's indecision, Greg finished his coffee and lobbed the cup into the bin.

"Tell you what," he said. "If you don't mind me taking Beth and Jack to my place first while I get changed, I can drop them back at your house and have a kip on your sofa, if that's okay? That way everyone gets what they need and you don't have to worry about these two being left unsupervised." He combed fingers through his hair, only then realising why he'd caught several surreptitious glances at his head.

"Are you absolutely positive you want to do this, Greg?" Joanna was clearly reluctant to impose on his good will any further than she already had. "These two can put up with being bored here with me and their brother for a while, until we know what's happening."

"I'm happy if you're happy." Greg looked at the elder two Foys and raised his eyebrows. In turn, they looked at their mother and nodded. Unable to think of any good reason why the plan wouldn't work, Joanna gave in to democracy.


	12. A Lightbulb Moment

The kids set about exploring his flat with some determination as Greg luxuriated in a steaming hot shower. The ability of hot water to revive him never ceased to amaze and he relished the sting of heat against his skin. Remembering just in time to close his bedroom door against accidental ingress by impressionable innocents, Greg towelled off as he hunted through his wardrobe for fresh gear. It being a Sunday he decided, despite the ever-present risk he might be called in to the office, to pull on a heavy pair of beige chinos and a navy polo shirt. Feeling much better, he dabbed on a bit of the same cologne he'd worn the previous night as the scent pleased him. Pulling a comb through his still-damp hair, he rubbed his chin in the mirror, wondering how disreputable he could get away with being and decided a quick once-over with the electric would do. The kids were quiet which meant they were either watching the telly, playing with his laptop or discreetly up to no good, any of which occupations were entirely fine by him. He headed back into the bathroom to plug in his razor, happy in the knowledge there was little that Beth or Jack could do to cause any real problems.

However, the two eldest Foys were neither watching the large flat-screen TV or playing with Greg's old laptop. Jack had been impressed by the former but hadn't wanted his sister to explore Greg's flat before he did, while it was beneath Beth's dignity to do anything at all with the laptop. The siblings had dismissed the neat little kitchen as being too mundane and domestic for more than a fleeting glance. The main lounge was a temporary distraction because neither of them had ever seen such an empty room before and the expanse of bare gleaming floorboards demanded at least a few hops of imaginary scotch. However, this quickly palled and, after a swift recce of the hallway, they found themselves in Greg's office.

Realising this was a serious office and knowing that Greg was a senior police officer, their initial hopes of seeing gruesome photographs of crime as wall art were dashed. Wandering around the room without touching anything, Beth seated herself in the big leather chair behind the desk and wondered if she might persuade Greg to take her into the Investigations room at the Met. Her mother had taken her in to the Curtis Green building the previous year, but she hadn't been permitted anywhere outside of Joanna's office. Maybe Greg would let her have access to something a little more exciting.

"You shouldn't sit there. Greg might not like it," Jack hissed as he watched his sister swinging her legs above the floor, half envious that Beth had claimed the chair before him.

"I'm not touching anything and anyway, Greg likes us. He won't mind us being in here as long as we don't disturb anything."

The small drawer close by her right hand proved immediately intriguing and, with one careful finger, Beth slid it silently open. For a top drawer in a serious desk in a serious office, it was entirely unimpressive. The whole drawer was empty, apart from one very small black velvet box. Which simply sat there. Dead centre in the middle of the empty space. Such a _tiny_ little box. Wrinkling her forehead, Beth felt sure she'd seen one just like this elsewhere, though she couldn't remember exactly when. The trailing tip of her index finger brushed against the soft velvet, knocking the box slight askew. She realised she'd have to put it back exactly where it was so Greg wouldn't know she'd been nosy.

"What are you _doing?_ " Rounding the corner of the large desk, Jack looked mildly horrified as he watched his sister pick up the little object and hold it up in the air. There was a minute gold stud on one side and, without even knowing she'd touched it, the box's lid sprang open.

Oh. _Oh wow_.

Sucking in a great breath, Beth twisted her wrist so Jack could see the contents.

Peering at the sparkling stone, Jack frowned. "That looks like a diamond ring," he said.

"Of _course_ it's a diamond ring," Beth agreed scornfully, as if she'd seen hundreds.

"D'you think it's real?" her brother asked, tilting his head to get a better look.

"Of _course_ it's real," Beth hissed. "Why would Greg have a fake ring?" Bringing the box closer for a more thorough examination, she saw it was a fairly large diamond as diamonds went, not that she was any expert. Her mother had a couple of rings of amethyst and amber, though those stones were much smaller. This was, Beth realised, where she'd seen a ring box before. On her mother's dressing table. But why on earth would Greg have a proper diamond ring, and a big one, at that? The box looked brand new, as did the ring itself, so it wasn't an old piece of jewellery he was keeping safe. It didn't look remotely like anything a man's would wear and, from her surreptitious, late-night encounters with _Teen Now_ magazine, it seemed to be much more like something a man gave a woman when he asked her to marry him. There had been a number of serious discussions in the magazine about the varying merits of square versus round stones. But if it _was_ an engagement ring then _who_ ...

Her eyes went perfectly round.

"It's an _engagement_ ring!" Beth stared at her brother in shock, her fingers rigid around the velvet box. It took him a few seconds to cotton on but abruptly, Jack's expression matched his sister's. "We've got to get out of here, _quick_ ," Beth replaced the little box in the centre of the empty drawer and pushed it carefully closed. "Before Greg sees us and wonders what we've been doing."

"He won't mind us being in here," Jack grinned with some confidence.

"Oh, won't he?" Standing by the open door, Greg glanced at the two of them with eyebrows raised. In the small, silent flat, he had followed the low whisper of voices. There hadn't been many places the children could go and he hadn't bother telling them _not_ to look at his office since there wasn't really anything they could damage.

For a second, two pairs of eyes stared at him in something akin to panic. He must have given them both a bit of a fright, appearing suddenly like that, though he could have sworn, just for a second, they looked enormously guilty about something. Typical kids.

"Is this where you sit when you're solving crimes?" Jack turned suddenly to look at the wall behind the desk. "I thought you'd have a big stack of photographs of dead bodies and things," he added, sounding almost wistful.

"Yes, I sit right there," Greg looking at Beth and pointing to the chair. "And work out all sorts of things that people have been doing."

Feeling a blush start to rise, Beth looked down at the smooth wooden armrests, polishing the satin surface with her fingertips. "I think I want to be a detective when I grow up," she said. "It's good to be able to stop bad things happening."

Realising that her experience with the school bullies was still recent history, Greg nodded understandingly. "It takes a lot of work to be a detective in the police," he said. "You've got to be good at all sorts of things including Maths and English and be good with people too."

"And guns?" Jack was positive there had to be more to detecting bad people than mouldy old maths. "And car chases?"

Laughing, Greg beckoned the pair out of the office and into the kitchen. "You know the British police don't use guns," he said, pointing Jack to a seat at the table. "But we do know how to make good sandwiches. Now, who wants ham and tomato and who wants cheese and pickle?"

"Can I have ham _and_ cheese _and_ pickle?" Jack looked hopeful.

Smiling and shaking his head, Greg reached towards the fridge.

Behind his turned back, brother and sister looked at each other with wide eyes.

###

The low drone of the television had sent him right off. After bringing the two elder Foys back to their house and texting Joanna their arrival time, Greg found himself in the kitchen making a pot of tea. Beth disappeared upstairs to her room while Jack switched the telly on, hunting for anything hinting at football. The general ambient warmth and the additional heat of the tea had him yawning uncontrollably. After only a few mouthfuls, he stretched himself out full-length along the main settee and tucked a velvet cushion under the side of his head. He was warm, weary and lulled into slumber by the soft drone of voices discussing the previous night's match, relaxing a bit at a time into a deep, comforting sleep.

As soon as he was sure Greg was unlikely to wake up and wonder where everyone was, Jack crept upstairs to find his sister. Sitting on her bed, Beth was flicking through the pages of several old _Teen_ magazines.

"So," her brother said, uncertainly. "You think Greg's going to ask mum to marry him?"

"I don't know for sure," Beth had her head deep in the romantic advice pages. "But we do know _he's_ not married and he's not seeing anyone else, or he would have said, and he likes mum a lot," she lifted her head, regarding her brother with a portentous expression. "A _big_ lot," she added, meaningfully.

"And we already know she likes him," Jack nodded sagely. "She looked ever so pretty and she was smiling a lot when they went out last night."

"And it says here," Beth held up the final irrefutable proof of the printed word. "That men only buy a diamond ring when they're in a serious relationship with someone."

"That someone being mum," Jack nodded again thoughtfully. "It makes sense."

"So what are we going to do about it?" Beth dropped the magazine, nibbling her lip. "You know what she's like. Mum never does anything in a hurry."

"Yeah," Jack nodded gloomily, before pausing. "But you know this means that ... if Greg and mum get married, then he'll be ..." Their eyes opened wide again, the siblings stared at one another wordlessly for the second time inside an hour.

"He'll be our _dad_. Stepdad," Beth corrected herself, biting her lip again.

"I think that would be ... a good thing," Jack went and sat beside his sister. Normally shunning all possible physical contact with her tiny bedroom and its contents, this situation was so critical that it called for a bit of familial solidarity. "I like him. He likes football and he can fix locks and he catches bad people."

"Yes, but there's more to having a new dad than just watching football together," Beth sounded far away. "We'd probably have to move," she said, absently. "'Cos this place is cramped enough as it is, and you saw all the spare space Greg has at his flat," she shook her head. "We'd have to move to a bigger place for sure."

"Yeah, but that could be a good thing, yeah?" Jack was already imagining a house with a back garden with room to kick a football around a bit and maybe play sudden-death rules with Greg in goal. That, he reckoned, would be pretty amazing.

"Maybe," Beth nodded, thinking. "Though we wouldn't have mum to ourselves anymore."

"But ... maybe it would be good for them both?" Jack screwed up his face. "Look at all the stuff Greg's done since he started coming round to help mum with the computer. Look at all the things mum's done since he started helping her."

"Yeah," Deciding against mentioning that it was _she_ who use the laptop, Beth remembered Greg coming to school and sorting out the bullies. Moving would mean new schools and new people. New friends might be nice. It would be nicer still to have someone like Greg around in the future.

" _Yeah_ ," Jack remembered the noise of the crowd at the football and the meat pies. The idea of going to lots of football matches forever and ever was almost too exciting to think about.

"And we know he likes us, even Max," Beth sniffed at that last thought. Her baby brother wasn't always her favourite person, especially when he messed with her stuff. But it was true that Greg had become important, in one way or another, to all of them. "And we all like him, don't we?" Turning her head to gauge her brother's expression, she saw a yearning look she'd sometimes noticed in her mother's eyes. Taking a deep breath, Beth nodded to herself. _Right then_.

###

As promised, Max was eating ice-cream. In fact, he was almost swimming in it. Joanna sat and watched her youngest sit in a chair with a small table slid in front of him, digging in to what could only be described as a _tureen_ of different flavours.

"He'll be doing us a favour by finishing them off," the current day nurse seemed to have developed a soft spot for the child, tutting at the spread of the bruising around the boy's eyes. As predicted, Max was developing a pair of absolute shiners. The white tape contrasted shockingly with the darkening bruises and Joanna reminded herself to ring the boys' school first thing Monday morning, especially if Max needed to stay at home for a few days.

The paediatrician, Dr Ricci, arrived shortly after Greg had left with Beth and Jack, and checked all of Max's observations and responses. After shining a light in both his eyes, asking the child if he could balance on one leg for a few seconds and carefully examining the bump on his head, the specialist seemed pleased. Promising to return later to check on his progress, she reappeared shortly after lunch, just in time to watch him polish off a small Everest of dessert.

"Feeling hungry, are we?" she asked, amazed yet again at the capacity of small children to consume their bodyweight in ice-cream.

"Full now." Max licked a thumb. "Thank you," he added, remembering his mother was watching.

"How would you like to go home today, Max?" the paediatrician asked. "Your bump is getting better, your wrist and nose are repaired and I think you've eaten all the ice-cream in the hospital."

"He does seem quite lively," Joanna offered a mother's opinion. "He says he's not had any pain since last night and, as you can see," she added dryly. "His appetite doesn't appear to be suffering."

"There's really not a lot more anyone can do now," the specialist faced Joanna. "It's going to take Max a little time to heal and get over his bumps and bruises and he'd probably be more comfortable doing that at home than here. If we discharge him now, will you, or a responsible adult be able to be with him for the next few days?"

"I can take a few days off work," Joanna nodded. "How long should I keep him at home?"

"See how he feels by Wednesday. If there's no pain and he's improving generally, then he might be able to go back to school for a few hours on Thursday and Friday. If he's still feeling a little achy, then perhaps next Monday might be best. The nose splints need to stay on for ten days, but your local GP can remove the tape and replace it with a smaller bridge-guard for an additional couple of weeks. The wrist brace needs to stay on for at least four weeks and we'll have Max back in as an outpatient in a month's time to review his situation, how does that sound?"

"Does that mean I can go home now?" Ice-cream finished, the enthusiasm in Max's voice was unmistakable. After sharing a look of understanding with his mother, the paediatrician smiled.

"I'll get the discharge paperwork started."

###

During Greg's beauty sleep, Beth had gone online and watched a You Tube video on how to prepare your house when you were getting ready to sell it. The first thing the lady in the video said was to make a list of everything, even the very smallest things, that needed to be repaired or painted or replaced before potential buyers came to look at your home. Clutching a school notebook and a pencil, Beth and Jack walked around the upstairs of the house, starting with their bedrooms, making a note of anything that needed putting right before their house went on the market. Oddly, they couldn't find very many things that needed much attention. There were none of the things the lady talked about in the video: no scratches on the paintwork, no loose door handles, not even stains on the carpet. This last detail was particularly strange as Beth distinctly remembered the time when she'd dropped an illicit bottle of nail-varnish on her bedroom carpet and had hidden the resultant mark with books ever since. But now, when she looked, it seemed to have completely gone.

They ended up with a few things on the list but when they looked at it, they both had to admit it was mostly a lot of their stuff that needed putting away.

"The video said we needed to clear out all the rubbish first," Beth headed for the kitchen to locate a couple of large black bin-bags under the sink, handing one to her brother. "You start in your room and I'll start in mine," she said. "Anything that's broken or you haven't played with for a long time, put it in the bag. We can put the full bags out with the rubbish bin on Thursday."

Throwing away his old toys didn't sound much fun, but there was no arguing with his sister's logic, and the lady in the video did seem to have a nice house. Sighing reluctantly and nodding, he trailed upstairs to the small room he shared with Max, wondering where to start. Biting his lip, he realised that most of his own things ended up on the floor. With another heavy sigh, Jack dropped to the carpet, pulling stuff out from under the bed.

Beth's even smaller room was not quite so untidy, but that was only because she had no room for her belongings and kept most of it in big boxes; boxes that she hadn't really looked in for quite a while. Pulling the nearest one open, she saw books and old games in there that she would never use again. With a stoic sense of determination, she began turfing broken dolls and dog-eared books with loose pages into the plastic bag. It was soon full, but she'd managed to virtually empty three big boxes.

There was a knock on her semi-closed door.

"You all right in there?" Greg spoke from the upstairs landing. "I'm hearing a lot of thumping and banging happening up here. Everything okay?"

Pulling open her bedroom door, Beth stood beside the empty boxes, nodding and dusting off her hands. "Me and Jack are tidying up the rubbish in our rooms so we can keep everything nice ... so that ... so that _mum_ doesn't have to do it," her voice rang with sincerity.

"And your brother's doing the same thing, is he?" Still standing outside the room, Greg leaned forward, listening with a copper's ear. Beth's kind of heartfelt honesty usually only emerged after a great deal of practice. Something was going on here that was not quite meeting the eye. "Hmm?"

"Yes. You said we needed to keep the place tidy so that mum could concentrate on Max when he got out of hospital, and so we decided to clean up our rooms a bit." Meeting Greg's eye with an unblinking gaze, Beth sounded unflinchingly self-righteous. The gauge on Greg's private Lie-O-Meter immediately zoomed past _Intentional Misdirection_.

"I'll just see if your brother needs any help then, shall I?" Smiling internally, Greg walked towards the open door of the room shared by the boys, only to see a pair of feet sticking out from under the furthest bed.

"You alright under there?" he asked, folding his arms and frowning down at the wriggling legs. "Or is that how you usually sleep?"

"It's dark and I can't see everything." Jack's reply was muffled, but he squirmed out from under the small single bed and sat up, his hair sticking out and fluff all over his t-shirt. "There's a lot of rubbish in there," he added, looking irritated. "It's going to take me ages to clean it all up."

"I can see that," Greg nodded. "Beth told me all about what you're doing."

"She did?" Jack looked up at Greg uncertainly.

"Oh yes," Nodding, Greg sat on Max's bed. "Your sister explained what you're doing and why. I think it's very sensible of you to be so forward-thinking."

"You do?" Jack picked fluff off his clothing. "You think it's a good idea?"

"I think it's a terrific idea and I'm sure your mum will too."

"You don't ... mind?" Jack's eyes were wide and his expression curiously hesitant.

"Why should I mind?" Keeping his tone carefully neutral, Greg started reeling in his little fish. "You haven't done anything wrong."

"We only wanted to get things ready," Jack nodded in agreement as he stood up, brushing bits from his jeans. "But the lady in the video said to look for things that needed repairing and we couldn't find any, so we thought we should tidy things up first, so that, when we move house, it won't take so long to get everything ready."

A tingle ran down Greg's spine. _Move house?_ Jo hadn't mentioned moving. Maintaining a nondescript expression, he nodded back at the child. "Can you remember which video you watched?" he asked casually.

"Beth watched it first, on You Tube. It was called ..." screwing one eye closed and looking up at the ceiling, Jack searched for the information. "Something like 'Top ten tips to selling your home', I think," Jack looked back at Greg, lifting his eyebrows. "It was a very good video and the lady had a really nice house and the people who came to see it really liked it a lot."

"And you and Beth thought it'd be a good idea to help your mum and get things ready before this place was put up for sale?"

Nodding emphatically, Jack flopped theatrically back on his own bed. "Of course, you'll have to arrange everything with mum first," he said, sitting up and suddenly looking very serious. "But Beth an' me won't say anything until, well ... _y'know_ ," the boy grinned, abruptly shy. "It'll be our secret."

The tingle returned, dancing its way up the back of his neck. Greg's intuition was sending him some very unusual little messages, as if he already knew what Jack was talking about without _realising_ he knew.

"And how do you think I should arrange things with your mother?" he probed, cautiously, not wanting to put the child off.

"Well, I don't know about _that_ kind of stuff," Jack waved a hand dismissively. "I'm only a kid."

"But I need to speak with your mum before anything else happens?" Greg explored a little more, tentatively feeling his way around the idea. _What on earth would he need to arrange with Joanna?_ Something to do with the pottery website? But if so, why would that mean selling the house? He tried a different tack. "And what would the new place be like?" he asked slowly.

"I'd like a big garden so we could play football," Jack hurled himself backwards on to his bed and stared up at the ceiling again. "Lots of grass and space for a proper goal."

Well, at least that much made some sense, Greg realised. There was clearly some sort of situation here that Beth and Jack thought they knew about. He racked his brain but came up with nothing; Jo had never mentioned moving house to him although he vaguely recalled her mentioning ages ago that traffic in this part of Bermondsey was getting heavier due to the tidal works next door. Was that the reason Jack thought they might be moving? Had his mother said something to them, even in passing? He tried again.

"And what does Beth want, do you think?" he asked, carefully.

"I think she just wants to change schools," Jack sat back up. "I know she's never really liked the big school she's at now, even before those girls started picking on her. I know she worries about mum being all alone all the time, so it'll be really good when we're all together in the new house."

 _Okay_ , Greg saw that Jack was very much of the opinion there was going to be a new house somewhere with a garden and that they'd be going to different schools, which suggested moving out of the immediate area, at least. But what possible motivation might there be for the family to move? _Hang on ..._

"So you don't think your mum will be alone in the new place?" Greg had a sense that he might be drifting closer to some critical point.

"Not after you get married, no," Jack shook his head emphatically; unaware that Greg's eyes had snapped open, his entire attention focused solely on the boy's words. "And if we sell this place and you can sell your place, then we can all be together in a bigger house with a garden for me an' Max and a better school for Beth. And then mum will be really happy too," he said, looking up and smiling, only to pause as he noticed a flicker of movement out in the passageway.

"Oh _Jack_." Beth stood framed in the open doorway, her face a picture of disaster. "What have you _done?_ "


	13. The Hard Word

For a second, Greg's head whirled. Oddly, this wasn't a unique sensation. It had happened before, on those few, terrifying and highly tensioned occasions to which he and his team had been called. A flash of memory reminded him of a hostage situation where everything seemed to happen all at once, with screams and shouting amid the thunder of police-issue boots on the stairs, doors banging and a final, solitary gunshot. He had that feeling right now, as if he were caught right in the middle of something big, fast-moving and unpredictable, and it was going down whether he was ready for it or not.

"I'm sorry, what?" he blinked hard, staring at Jack whose expression had furrowed into uneasy dismay. "What did you say about your mum and me?"

"Only that ..." Jack's eyes flickered between Greg and his sister, hovering in the doorway, his expression suddenly full of unease. "Only that ... well, we saw the ring you see, and ... and ..." He turned to Beth for moral support.

"And we didn't mean to be nosy, but we ... _I_ ... found the ring in the drawer in your office, and we know you're not married, 'cos we asked mum, and ... well, we thought that you and she ..." she shrugged awkwardly, looking as unhappy as her brother.

"What ring?" Shaking his head as if to clear it, Greg knew he was missing something. "What ring, and where did you see it? Which drawer?"

"The big shiny diamond ring," Jack swallowed convulsively. "In your desk."

"In the top drawer of your desk." Beth echoed. "We saw it in there before you came in. I didn't mean to open the box, honest, but it opened by itself when I picked it up," she bit her bottom lip guiltily.

"There's nothing in that drawer, certainly not a diamond ring," Greg shook his head, frowning. "And don't you know it's not good to look in people's private things?"

"I know, and I'm sorry, but there _is_ a ring!" Beth's chin wobbled. "There _is!_ And Jack saw it too! It was the only thing in the drawer, in a little black box ..."

Still frowning, Greg took a deep breath. He could see that both kids genuinely believed what they were saying, even though he knew for a fact the drawer was empty.

The same drawer he'd known to be empty, but which had held a blank CD the moment he'd been looking for one. The same desk that somehow charged his phone and his laptop without any electrical sockets anywhere near it ... Lifting his eyebrows, he pursed his lips. There was one obvious way to resolve this.

"Right. Get your coats on, we're going back to my place and you can tell me exactly what you think you saw."

The drive was tense and silent, both children knowing without any doubt that the situation had gone much, much further than they'd ever intended and way beyond their control. Their mother was undoubtedly going to kill them for this and then stop them watching TV for the rest of their lives. Judging by the stiffness in his neck and shoulders as he drove, it was clear to both of them that Greg was none too happy either.

Beth felt her stomach churn with anxiety. The very last thing they had wanted to do was to upset Greg or make him think any less of them. And now, she was very much afraid, they had done exactly that and ruined everything.

Parking the car in its usual spot, Greg had the children out and ushered into the lift without saying a word. Unlocking his front door, he headed straight for the office and sat in the chair, waiting as both Foys trailed into the room after him.

"There is no ring in this drawer," he said, beckoning Beth and Jack closer so they could see. "The last time I looked in here, no more than a few days ago, it was completely empty," he added, sliding the drawer in question gently open to show them.

There was a moment of hush as three pairs of eyes stared hard down into the shallow space.

"See?" Beth felt the weight of mountains lift from her shoulders. "We told you there was."

It was impossible, unthinkable even, but there was no doubting the evidence. Right in the centre of the otherwise empty drawer was a small black box. With a tentative touch, Greg reached down and lifted it slowly to eye-level. As he turned it carefully in his fingers, the tiny lid sprang open, revealing its contents.

"That's exactly what it did when I picked it up as well," Beth's words held a note of vindication.

"It's true, Greg," Jack felt it was his turn to offer his sister support. "It did exactly the same thing before."

With narrowed eyes, Greg inspected the gleaming glinting ring, mere inches from his face. It was definitely a woman's ring, and a diamond one at that. A big diamond, too. He'd seen enough polished stones like this in the course of his daily work to judge it to be around a carat in size and the ring itself was obviously top-quality gold. The hallmarks inside were too small for him to see easily without a magnifying glass, but they were there. It had a sharp, clean look about it, suggesting it had never graced anyone's hand before and, while there was no obvious manufacturer or retailer's name on the box itself, it looked and felt expensive. He had no reason to believe the ring to be anything other than what it appeared to be, a large diamond ring. An engagement ring for a woman. Placing the open box on the top of his desk and sliding the empty drawer closed, he exhaled loudly, releasing the breath he hadn't realised he was holding.

"I apologise," he spoke to the room in general, still staring down at the sparkling diamond. "I'm sorry I doubted either of you, but I have absolutely no idea how this ring got into this flat, let alone into this desk. I swear that the last time I took something out of that drawer, I left it completely empty." Lifting his gaze, he glanced slowly at both children.

"When we saw it," Beth rested her hand on the chair as she stood beside him. "The first thing we thought was that you had got this ring for mum. M'sorry, Greg," she faltered. "It was wrong to think ..." her voice trailed away as tears threatened to clog her throat. Now that some of the anxiety had gone, she was suddenly feeling upset.

"Hey now," Greg's arm slid around her of its own accord. He gave her a gentle squeeze. "There's no need for tears. You saw something and made a very reasonable assumption under the circumstances, though if you want to be a police officer, you need to learn not to do what I just did and jump to conclusions without more evidence to back you up."

"But we thought we _knew_ ..." Jack sounded more pragmatic. Now that they'd been proven correct, he wanted to know what they'd got wrong. "We thought you and mum ... that you liked each other a lot? Don't you like her?"

Turning his eyes back to the little box, Greg nodded. "I do like your mum very much," he said. "But there's a lot more things to think about than just that," he paused, looking for the right way to explain the politics of adult romantic relationships to a couple of prepubescents.

"But what?" Beth was frowning now as she tried to work out what other things she'd missed, things that _Teen_ magazine hadn't mentioned. "You like her, and we know she likes you. A _lot_ ," she added, glancing at her brother.

"Yeah, but that's not always enough of a reason to get married, you see," Greg's eyes strayed back to the little box on the desk top. It really was quite a nice ring. Apart from the minor drawback of not knowing where it had come from or who it really belonged to, Jo would probably have liked it.

"But why isn't it enough?" Beth looked confused. _Teen_ magazine made it very clear that mutual affection and respect were the key reasons for a romantic alliance.

Linking his fingers across his stomach as he sat in his chair still staring at the shining ring, Greg pondered the child's question. Why _wasn't_ it enough? It was true he liked and admired Jo, and they seemed to get on together well enough and last night ... was it only last night? ... they'd had fun at that dinner and dance thing. He got on well with the kids and they seemed to like him ... Jack was keen on his football and Beth was a little too clever for her own good, already talking about joining the Force, and little Max ... he smiled to himself, remembering the hours he'd just spent telling police stories to the youngest Foy in hospital. Yes, the liking definitely seemed to be mutual, and _yet_ ... He frowned at the thoughts chasing around his head. Why _wasn't_ it enough?

"It's not up to me," he said finally, knowing in his heart that it actually might be. "Your mum is just getting back on her feet after your … after your dad going the way he did, and it wouldn't be right to rush her into any kind of … relationship, if that makes any sense at all to you pair."

"But mum never rushes into _anything_ ," Jack groaned, slumping theatrically down onto the desk in abject frustration. "If you wait for her, we'll all be a million years old before she decides."

"This ring's no good, in any case," Greg poked the open box with a finger.

"Why not?" Beth looked at the shining diamond. "It looks pretty."

"Yes, but," Greg leaned back and met her eyes with a gentle smile. "I didn't buy it. I couldn't give your mother a strange ring like this even if I wanted." He brushed a wisp of hair from her face. "It wouldn't be honest."

"Then how did it get here?" Jack bounced back up. "Finders keepers, seems to me."

"Nice try, boy, but that's not the way to do things," Greg reached out a hand and snapped the box shut. "This is being handed into Lost and Found at work, first thing on Monday."

His mobile rang. It was Joanna. She and Max were almost ready to leave the hospital after an early than expected discharge, and where was everyone?

"Hang on there, and we'll all come and get you," Greg stood, sliding the ring box into his jacket pocket. He looked at the two elder Foys. "Not a word about any of this to your mum until I find out what's going on, okay? This is something best kept between us for now, right?"

With disappointed nods, the children filed out of the office, heading for the front door. It had all looked so promising and now everything had gone totally wrong.

###

Even though he'd only left the hospital only a matter of hours before, Greg could see the development of Max's facial bruising. The puffy swelling around his nose and eyes was very much diminished and the discoloration looked really something on a six-year-old.

"Crumbs, Max," Greg picked the child up rather than have him walk all the way out to the car. "You're starting to look like Batman. Your mates are going to be so jealous."

"Yeah but," Max gave the cast on his arm a forlorn look as he held close to his chest in a sling. "This is plastic," he said. "Nobody's able to write on it or _anything_." He sounded so tragic that Greg laughed, taking care not to jiggle the lad too much.

"I'm sure we can find something that will write on plastic if you really want everyone to sign it," he said, only then realising it was not his call to make. Glancing across at Joanna, he caught a small upward curve of her lips. They were obviously on the same wavelength as far as the youngest Foy was concerned.

"Where do you want him to sit?" he waited for Joanna to say whether she was going to sit in the back of the BMW with her two youngest, or whether she was going to leave the three kids in the back seat.

"We'll look after Max, don't worry Mum," Beth sang out from the back seat. Pursing his mouth in a wry smile, Greg realised he was probably going to have to put up with a couple of determined matchmakers for the foreseeable future.

 _Unless_ , said a quiet internal voice, _unless you stopped seeing them altogether_. _You could leave them in peace and go back to being alone, if you wanted_.

The notion was so unappealing and felt so profoundly wrong that he frowned instinctively, a furrow forming between his eyes. A small bolt of lightning struck him as he realised he had no desire _not_ to see them. The thought he might not be able to talk to Jack about their favourite football team, or listen to Beth tell him how decrepit his computer skills were, left him with an acute sense of loss. He wanted to watch Max grow out of his black eyes and see what next scrape he'd get himself into. He wanted to know Beth was happy at school. He wanted ...

His chest seized and he fought momentarily for breath as it dawned on him that Beth and Jack had been exactly right. It wasn't just that he liked being with Joanna, he liked being with all of them. _He wanted the whole bunch_. His heart thumped hard several times as his brain slowly absorbed this totally unexpected revelation. _Christ_. He'd fallen in love with an entire _family_.

"Are you alright?" On his left, Joanna was leaning forward in the passenger seat, watching his expression with a concerned look on her face. "Are you ill? Are you having a heart attack?"

"Not a heart attack," he smiled weakly knowing she wasn't far off the mark, before taking a deep breath and sitting more upright. "Probably, _ah_ , a spot of indigestion," he took another deep breath before turning to smile at the woman beside him. The afternoon sun shone in through the windows of the car, streaking her hair with warmth and her face with softness. For a second, he thought he could smell flowers. "My system is a bit out of whack after the last twenty-four hours," he grinned. "I could murder a cup of tea, what about you?"

"Oh god, you read my mind," Joanna looked exhausted. "I'll get the kettle on once we get home."

 _Home_. Greg started the car. It sounded like a great place to go.

###

The sergeant in charge of Lost-and-Found at the Curtis Green building laughed in his face when he attempted to hand the ring in.

"You what, mate?" the man gave him a deeply pitying look. "You're trying to hand in a piece of jewellery you say you found in a drawer because it's not yours and you don't know how it got there? Gimme a break," he scoffed dismissively. "If you've lived in that place of yours for a year and nobody's come looking for a missing ring by now, we'd only end up giving it back to you," he said. "Anything not claimed after six weeks gets offered back to the person who found it, you should know that, Inspector." The man looked down at the ring in its box. "Nice bit of bling that though," he sighed soulfully. "The only thing I ever get to find in our house is a handful of manky change down the back of the sofa."

Convinced that he was onto a losing wicket at work, Greg's next thought was to contact the Estate Agents and solicitor who handled the sale and the conveyancing of the property to him from the previous owner. Both returned to him with an hour to say the previous owner had already sold his new property and had left the country with no forwarding address. There was nobody else to try as the Body Corporate of his building had very little contact with any of the flat owners. Nobody, it seemed, knew anything about anything.

Sitting at his desk in work, he brought out the sparkling ring in its little black box and stared at it thoughtfully for several minutes before sliding it back into his jacket pocket.

###

It was Wednesday, two whole days since he'd chauffeured Max home from the hospital and Greg was under the strictest instructions not to be late for the cake-cutting ceremony after everyone arrived back from the pizza place. Apparently, there was to have been a large chocolate ice-cream birthday cake to follow the pizzas but there would be a smaller, private cake for just the family afterwards, when all of Max's friends had gone home to work off their sugar highs in the bosom of their own kith and kin.

Not sure what to get a seven-year-old for his birthday, Greg had settled on something he'd have cheerfully done murder for when he was that age. He'd wrapped it at work wearing a grin that refused to go away. Arriving at the Foy house at seven o'clock on the dot, as instructed, he was greeted with three colourful balloons tied to the front door, childrens' laughter and the sound of loud party music. He smiled again as he waited for the door to open.

A flushed and happy Joanna greeted him with a kiss on the cheek and a warm welcome. "I'm never going to get him to calm down with all the sugar he's stuffed into his system today," she laughed as she brought Greg into the kitchen. "Tea?" she asked. "Or a glass of wine? We brought a pizza back and there's plenty left if you're feeling hungry."

"Don't mind if I do, thanks," Greg hung his jacket over a kitchen chair, leaving his wrapped gift on the table. Grabbing a slice of something that looked fairly cheesy and possibly herby and garlicky, he accepted a glass of aromatic red wine and found the combination unexpectedly fantastic. "So, how's the birthday boy now it's Wednesday?"

"You'll see for yourself soon enough," Jo topped up her own glass and leaned against a wall. "I took your advice and rang his school on Monday to tell them all about it. Max wants to go in tomorrow to show off his war-wounds before the bruises start to fade. They're pretty spectacular."

"I only wish he'd found a less painful way to claim bragging rights," Greg waved pizza in the air.

" _Greg!_ " A boy-shaped missile thundered into the kitchen and wrapped a single arm as far as it could go around him. "I've had the _best_ birthday! An' everyone thought my black eyes were bangin' an' I can't wait to tell everyone at school tomorrow about _everything_."

Looking down at the small human clinging to his side, Greg whistled, impressed despite himself. The child looked as if he was wearing a dark mask across the width of his face, an image made even stronger because of the framing white tape.

"That is one magnificent set of shiners," he grinned. "And you sound like you're feeling better. How's the arm?"

" _Pfft_ ," Max shrugged indifferently. "It doesn't even hurt anymore and it's a brilliant place to keep things, look!"

Bending down, Greg peered inside the now slightly grubby sling and saw a small selection of toy figures and at least two wrapped chocolates. He nodded, wondering how long it would take for the chocolate to melt. "Very handy to keep your stuff with you like that," he said, lifting his gaze to Jo's rolling eyes. "I brought you something as well," he added, nodding at the cheerfully wrapped box on the kitchen table. "Though you're going to have to be a bit careful with it until you've got both arms working."

" _Whoa_ ," Max grinned mightily. "Can I open it now?"

"It's your birthday, lad, Have at it." Greg felt a small thrill of pleasure at the child's obvious delight.

Taking far less time to rip the paper off than it had to put on, Max's face lit up when he saw it was a specialised Lego set containing a spaceship and several aliens. " _Brilliant!_ " he whooped. "This is a brilliant set! Not even Deggers has got this one yet!"

"Thought you might like it," Greg smiled into his glass. "Deggers?"

"His best friend at school, Brian Deghart," Joanna filled in the gaps.

"It's _brill_. Thank you tons and _tons_ , Inspector Greg." Max gave him another one-armed hug before flying back into the front room to show his siblings.

"I see what you mean about him having an energy high," Greg laughed. "Good luck with getting him to sleep before midnight."

"And there's still the cake ceremony to go," Joanna sighed, opening the fridge and bringing out a modest though towering piece of iced confectionery. Setting it on the kitchen table, she hunted in one of the nearby drawers, bringing out a small white box which, when opened, disgorged a handful of tiny red candles set inside holders suitable to put in a cake. Counting out seven of them, she arranged them around the top of the cake. "Thankfully, this is the end of the celebrations," she said. "It's how we've always done it. She handed Greg a box of matches.

"If you can do the honours, I'll get the kids."

By the time all four Foys returned to the small kitchen, the candles were well ablaze, making the birthday cake about as festive as it could possibly be.

"Okay now Max, you know the procedure," Joanna smiled down at her youngest. "Blow them all out in one go and then you can make a wish."

Nodding, the child stood as close as he possibly could without getting icing on his sling and took a huge breath. With one long puff, all seven flames vanished into thin wisps of smoke as Max scrunched his eyes tight to make his annual wish as his audience launched into a rendition of 'Happy Birthday'.

At the ready with plates and forks, Jo deftly sliced the cake into sections, dishing it out to all three children who scampered off into the front room.

"I'm absolutely exhausted, but in a good way," Jo flopped down into a chair. "Remind me next time I say I'm going to take a handful of small boys out for a birthday feast that it's a mad idea, would you?"

Greg snorted, finishing off his chunk of pizza before reaching for his slice of highly decorated cake. It tasted as good as it looked. There was one piece left which went back into the fridge in an airtight container for Max the following day. It was plain to see that Joanna was running out of steam, hardly surprising, given recent events.

"Come on, you sit down and I'll do the dishes while you think of ways to get Boy Wonder to bed before you."

After collecting the plates from the front room and rolling up his sleeves, Greg took a swig of wine and whistled as he filled the sink with soapy water. Behind his back, Joanna sighed loudly as she lifted her feet onto another chair and sat back, closing her eyes and relaxing. It had been a long day, made even more gruelling by having to wrangle a group of energetic youngsters while taking care not to let Max over-exert himself. It was nice to kick back and do nothing, even for just a little while.

Dishes done, Greg walked back into the lounge and put a finger to his lips. "Your mum's having a bit of a rest," he said softly. "Let's try turning this music down a bit, eh?" He looked around. The place was something of a shambles, with birthday cards and torn wrapping paper everywhere. "Come on," he raised his eyebrows at the three Foys. "How about tidying this up so your mum doesn't have to do it for once?"

With several exaggerated sighs and rolled eyes, the small room was put almost back to rights in a few minutes. Clicking the telly on, Greg found a football match for Jack after Beth said she was going upstairs to chat with her friends online. As he turned to speak to Max, he smiled at the sight of the child flopped across the end of the settee like a rag doll, utterly bereft of bones. It looked very much like someone had depleted their energy levels far faster than expected, but then, he was still healing and the lad must have used up a lot having such an exciting day.

"Jack," Greg picked carefully up the youngest Foy. "Which bed is Max's? I may as well take him upstairs so your mum doesn't need to see to him later."

"It's the one nearest the window," Jack looked up from his perch in front of the TV with an expression on his face that Greg found hard to place. Part amusement, part … something else.

"Right. Keep the sound down so's not to wake him up, yeah?"

"Yes … _Greg_." Jack turned abruptly back to the football.

 _Kids_. Greg shook his head. _Can't live with 'em, can't sell 'em_. Max was out for the count and made no demur when Greg removed his shoes and his jeans and settled the boy into his bed in his t-shirt and underpants. Carefully arranging the pillows to cradle the hurt arm, Greg drew the curtains and was just about to leave the room when a soft and sleepy voice spoke from the shadows.

"I made a really big wish tonight."

"Did you?" Greg kept his voice low.

"Yes. I wished that you'd be my dad for real. 'Night Inspector Greg."

"Night Max."

Walking slowly down the narrow stairs, Greg was caught up in his own thoughts and hardly noticed Jo standing at the kitchen doorway across the passage.

"Don't tell me you actually got him to bed?" she handed him another glass of wine.

"He took himself off, pretty much," Greg smiled as he looked at her face, almost as familiar to him now as his own reflection. "I just tucked him in, is all."

"You're a godsend in more ways than one," Joanna patted him on the arm.

"It's a nice evening outside," Greg looked out the kitchen window. "I've never actually looked at the river from here."

"It's forty feet that way," Jo tilted her head. "And not all that impressive if the tide's out. Come on, I'll show you."

"You'll need a coat or something, it's coming in nippy" Greg looked at her short sleeves. "Here," he grabbed his jacket out of the kitchen and draped it around her shoulders.

Leaving the front door ajar so that a slice of hallway light spilled out onto the small patch of grass in front of the house, Joanna gestured Greg to the left, though the sounds of the river would have been hard to miss. Carrying their glasses of wine they strolled companionably to the railed wall running along the river's boundary. Leaning over the chilly steel rail, they both watched the small boats returning to their moorings as the evening lights of the city glinted across the dark grey Thames.

"It's not bad tonight," Jo sounded peaceful and at ease. "It's been a good day though you're right, it's a bit chill now." Shivering, she pushed her empty hand into the pocket of Greg's jacket.

"Yup. You always know you're in London with the river nearby," Greg scanned the buildings on the far bank as different lights blinked on. There was a lot of new construction going on, with tall cranes standing still in the gathering dark. "Do you like living this close to the water?"

When there was no answer, he turned, curious at the lack of response.

Jo was staring at the small box she held in her fingers. As she lifted her eyes to his in query, the lid of the box flipped open, revealing a diamond ring.

"Goodness, Greg," she said. "Whose is this?"

Inhaling slowly, Greg turned fully to face her. "Yours. If you want it."


	14. Once Upon a Time

"I don't understand," Joanna spoke haltingly, her confusion obvious. "You're giving me a ring?"

"Well," Greg's smiled flashed uncertainly between serious and hopeful. "There are a couple of conditions, you might say."

"What? _Conditions?_ What conditions? What _are_ you talking about?" Jo wrinkled her forehead and shook her head, even more bewildered than before.

"It's an engagement ring." Greg swallowed the last of his wine, waiting.

"An engagement ring ... _ohhh_ ..." Joanna's voice dropped into a whisper as she stared down at the diamond glittering in the near-dark. "Is this ... are you ... is this a _proposal_ , Greg?"

"Well ... yes. Though I'm making a bloody awful hash of it, apparently." Stepping forward, he took the wineglass from her unresisting fingers and stood both glasses on top of the wide concrete wall behind him.

"But we hardly know each other," Joanna searched his face in the fading light. "It's only been ..."

"Nearly five months, all up," Greg said, stepping closer. "Just on eighteen weeks, in fact." He paused, barely a foot away. "One hundred and twenty-six days, three thousand and twenty-four hours, one hundred and ..."

"Stop, stop. You're making my head spin."

"Is that good spin or bad spin?" Greg grinned down at her nonplussed expression.

"Don't start that nonsense again," Jo leaned back to try and see his eyes.

"Yeah, okay. No more nonsense." Even in the cool of the evening, he could still smell flowers. Bending his head, he found her mouth, kissing her judiciously, sliding first one and then both arms around her beneath the shelter of his jacket in a careful embrace. Bringing her close against him, Greg kissed her again, carefully and properly. When all he heard were soft sounds of pleased surprise, he kissed her again, slightly more improperly.

"But Greg," Joanna leaned back, her voice mild. "What about the children?"

"Yeah, well that's one of the conditions, actually." Keeping his fingers linked together in the small of her back, Greg felt a smile curve his mouth. For the first time in forever, he was suddenly absolutely certain this was the right thing to do. "This is for me and the kids too," he said. "If you are willing to consider making a go of this, I'd want, at some point, and with your blessing, to be really a proper family. I'd want to adopt them Jo, so we're really in this for each other," he added. "I'd never try or expect to replace their father, but all three of those kids have become very important to me in a very short space of time in ways I never imagined anyone could and I know, from bitter experience, there's no point waiting for a perfect moment to do something. Everything is telling me to go for this. I know you've done things the hard way since Stephen died and I'll respect any decision you reach, but you need to know that the thought of not being in your kids' lives in some meaningful way would be as difficult for me now as not being with you." He rested his forehead lightly against hers. "And so the first condition is that you have to be happy with it," he said. "With all of it, the whole deal. If there's any uncertainty in your mind about me, the slightest thing, then you need to tell me now, before I go too far to stop."

"I don't understand," Jo's words were the barest whisper. "What do you mean, 'go too far to stop'?"

"I mean that if you don't want me to want this, to be with you and the children, then you need to tell me now," he said quietly. "Quite honestly, it would be the biggest kick in the guts, but I could probably still walk away in one piece, even now. But don't let me get my hopes up and then tell me no. I'm not sure I could handle the misery of that, and I was never one to play the field."

"Oh _Greg_ ," her voice was kind.

"I realise this isn't the most romantic of proposals, but everything between us has been based on being practical and neither of us are green teenagers any more, and, oh god _Jo_ ... tell me you'll at least think about it, please."

"Oh _Greg_ ," Joanna repeated, lifting a hand to his cheek. "And I thought you might be feeling rushed."

"Rushed? _Me?_ You think _I_ might be feeling rushed?" It was Greg's turn to look confused. "I didn't want _you_ to feel under any pressure. After all, it really has only been eighteen weeks. One hundred and twenty-six days ..."

"Oh, do shut up, Inspector." Leaning against his chest, Jo reached up to press her lips against his, winding her fingers in his short thick hair and feeling the warmth of his embrace wrapped around her.

There was no reluctance in her kiss, Greg realised, both pleased and stirred by Joanna's response, but then, neither of them were beginners at this. His head began to whirl slowly as he held her tight, feeling her yielding form mould against the shape of his body.

A small gasp from the open doorway signalled they were no longer alone. Glancing over Jo's shoulder, he saw a sudden movement as someone ducked back into the house. Probably Jack. The boy would be happy his scheming had born fruit. Amused at the thought of Beth and Jack's determination to marry their mother off, he smiled against Joanna's lips as she murmured against his mouth. Despite the increasing chill of the evening, he felt warm and floaty. It had been a long time since he'd been in this situation with someone for whom he held a genuine affection.

"We'd best get back in before the kids come looking for us," Jo sighed softly as Greg kept an arm around her. His smile went unnoticed in the dark. _That boat has sailed,_ he thought.

Stilling, Jo looked back into eyes made darker by emotion. "You said you had a couple of conditions?" she asked, hesitantly. "What's the other one?"

Greg laughed. "Only that we'd have to find a bigger house, with a decent-sized garden for Jack to kick a ball around, near a good school for Beth," he paused, smiling at nothing. "And where Max and I can hang out, doing the things he likes to do, hopefully without him breaking anything else." He paused, half-way between laughing and groaning. "Christ, Jo, You cannot possibly know how much I want this."

"I'm beginning to get an idea," her voice was gentle and warm as she stepped out of his arms, sliding a hand into his and tugging him back towards the open door. "Come on. I need a coffee and we need to talk."

###

She didn't say yes. Not that night. Not even that week. But her features softened when she thought about his words, the plain, unpretty words of an honest man, a good man. While she still wasn't sure of the best way to go, Joanna began to comprehend what Greg meant when he'd said theirs was a relationship based on practicality more than romance, and perhaps that was what held her back from considering a commitment. The first Greg knew of her deliberations was when his mobile rang one morning nearly two weeks later.

"Hi Greg. Are you busy? Do you have any plans for tonight?"

Even her voice made him smile these days. Content as he was to wait for her, it was always nice to know she wanted to be with him, even for reasons other than the romantic.

"No, not busy. Just paperwork and the usual stuff. You want to grab dinner or something?"

"Beth's staying at a friend's for the night and the boys will be in bed by eight. I have a nice bottle of Shiraz and I wondered if you'd like to come and try a bowl of home-made chilli around seven?"

"Sounds too good to refuse," Greg grinned up at the ceiling. "Want me to bring anything?" There was a long pause.

"Bring a toothbrush." The call ended before he'd any chance to respond.

All thoughts of work flew out the window. Apart from not having had the most romantic of relationships thus far, it had been almost totally without a physical element. Oddly, he'd not really considered that an issue: those things tended to work themselves out in their own time. But perhaps Jo didn't see the situation the way he did. Perhaps the Counsellor had other ideas about how to address that side of things. His blood rushed and a distinct tingle sprinted its way around his anatomy as he breathed deep at the idea. Sex wasn't anything desperate for him; he'd been without for long enough but the idea of spending the night with Joanna, their first night together, reawakened a long-banked desire and made his stomach do funny things.

Giving up any pretence of working by four, Greg nipped off home for a shower and a shave, despite shaving only that morning. The last thing he wanted was for Jo to feel remotely uncomfortable with any part of him. His thoughts had turned increasingly sensual through the day and now, far from being controlled and calm about the thought of sex, he was as jumpy as a cat. Bringing a second bottle of decent red with him in case the evening needed a little more easing, he presented himself promptly at seven, having changed into a polo shirt and chinos. Waiting at the door for Jo to welcome him in, Greg felt his heart rate rocket upwards at the sight and sound of her.

"You look nice," he said, as her hair swirled around her face. She was wearing lipstick too, he noted, and that floral scent he liked.

"After the day I've had," Joanna shook her head, smiling as she beckoned him inside. "It's been a bit manic. Come in and have some wine."

The boys had already eaten and were watching telly. Greg looked in the front room door and waved. They waved back, more interested in the TV than in him. Perfect.

The kitchen table was set for two, with a basket of warm flatbread in the middle beside an opened bottle of wine. The fragrance of savoury spice filled the air and his heart did another little loop. Pouring the wine, he took a seat at Joanna's gesture, waiting for her to set the pace of the evening. He wondered if she could hear the pounding of his heart.

Dinner was relaxed and chatty, with Joanna talking about the latest sales of pots and some of the commissions she'd recently been asked to accept. Greg talked about the minutia of the endless office work which inevitably accompanied what he always thought of as the _real_ work, the stuff out on the streets with real people. The food was delicious without being overpowering and the wine was rich and robust. Greg found himself missing being married more at this moment than he had since long before the divorce. It was a visceral feeling, deep in his gut. He needed a sense of belonging as much as the intimacy of a relationship and it had been oh, so very long ...

The boys went up to bed as planned, Jo taking care of their night-time routine while Greg handled the dishes. He poured them both another glass of wine and sat, waiting for her in the kitchen.

"Jack's been as good as gold recently," Joanna sounded marginally puzzled when she returned. "I've no idea why he's behaving so well." She shrugged, lifting her glass. Greg said nothing but his eyebrows twitched. He had a pretty good notion why.

"To an evening together," Jo slowly reached over and clinked her glass against his. "Though I have to tell you, it's been a while since I've ... well, you know."

"We can sit and watch the TV and I can go home after that, if you'd prefer." Greg smiled, relaxed again and knowing there was no need to rush anything. If Joanna was still even remotely unsure, then he'd not push.

"No," Jo looked thoughtful. "I've considered the situation and, while this might not be the most romantic solution, I think it's something we need to deal with like adults. If you'd rather not stay the night, then I'll go and find us a film to watch."

Arching his eyebrows, Greg stood slowly, placing his wine on the table. "If you only knew how difficult it's been for me all day, thinking about taking you to bed ..." he inhaled hard and shook his head. "It's been a while for me too. Even before the divorce, me and Ange weren't exactly seeing eye to eye for quite a while, so ..." he shrugged and looked self-conscious.

"We are quite the pair," Jo laughed, putting down her glass. "I think you'd better kiss me before we both get a case of cold feet."

Needing no further urging, Greg cupped her warm face in the palms of his hands, scanning her expression, examining every tiny frown, every smile line. He smiled finally. "You are perfect," he sighed, lowering his head until their lips touched. "Perfect."

They stood there, growing warm in each other's arms, trading kisses and soft murmurs of approval and pleasure. Greg felt his heartbeat rise again as he stepped back, taking Jo's hand, letting her lead him silently up the stairs to her bedroom. He paused as they walked through the door.

There were candles everywhere. Flickering white candles drifting a faint perfume into the air. The bed was freshly changed and looked soft and inviting.

There were no words, just the gentle sweep of fingertips over soft flesh and the silken curve of limbs into positions of desire and comfort. Low murmurs morphed into pleas of encouragement as the rocking dance, as old as life, moved inexorably towards its closing movements. Close sighs and soft laughter filled the space beneath the covers.

There was silence between them for several minutes.

"You're looking altogether too smug." Jo lay back against the cool of a pillow, her face tilted towards him. Greg was lying on his back, hands behind his head, wearing a foolish grin that refused to abate.

"You're not exactly sounding miserable yourself, if I might make so bold," he scoffed quietly, scanning her profile with gladdened eyes. "What's the saying about great tunes on old pianos?"

"If you're trying to compare me to a musical instrument, I may have to bite you really hard." Jo smiled up into the darkness, her body too warm and quieted to want to move. "That was really nice," she added. "It's been a long time but it's good to know some things don't change."

"And that was only the first act," Greg turned his body towards her meaningfully.

"You have to be kidding." Joanna smiled helplessly at the determination on his face. "Neither of us is nineteen anymore. I'm almost middle aged."

 _Almost_. "Never say never," Greg murmured, drawing her squarely back into his arms.

###

Though he'd left before the boys awoke for school, Greg promised Jo, with numerous soft kisses, that he'd return that evening and take everyone out for dinner. It would be a nice change. This time, instead of the pizza palace, he dropped the BMW into the half-full carpark of a family restaurant. It was a floating eatery on the river itself, an old revamped barge, popular with swans and many different types of estuary birds. You could even buy bags of bird food or dry bread and pastry on the boat to feed the feathered visitors. Max was overjoyed, spending half his time dangling over the rail, watching the mass of birds gathering for their evening feast. Beth was feeding a large mallard from her fingers, her expression beatific.

"This is a terrific place, Mum," Jack didn't know where to look next, at the food, the birds or at the smiling face of the man sitting on the opposite side of the table. There was a distinct air of happiness around the little group.

"Yeah, it's fun to eat here," Greg nodded, turning to Joanna. "Do you like it?"

Pausing, on the verge of saying something else entirely, Jo met his eyes, sending a message that had little to do with either food or swans. "Yes Greg," she said. "I do. Very much. _Yes_."

" _Yes?_ " Greg's thoughts skittered to a halt, his heart picking up its beat as it comprehended something his brain did not yet fully understand.

" _Yes_ ," Jo smiled, a big wide smile.

###

"Five bed, three bath, two garage. All mod cons. Large rear garden, with access to schools, shops and public transport," Greg read out, pausing when he saw the location. "No good, too far away for work."

"Four bed, two bath, large garden, semi-detached. Woodford," Jo paused. "Too far?"

"A bit," Greg brooded. "I'd like to be inside a forty minute drive."

"Stratford?"

"Too far."

"Holloway?"

"On the A1? Are you insane?"

Sat in the front room, listening to the two grown-ups in the kitchen, Beth rolled her eyes at Jack. "Honestly, those two have absolutely no idea," she said, scrolling on the laptop, now hers by default, with an air of long-suffering.

Two evenings ago, there had been a big family meeting. Greg had been there, sitting on the same couch and looking unusually anxious. "It's like this, guys," he said as Joanna shared a long smile among her brood. "I really like all of you and I really like your mum and we've had a talk about things and ... well, we think it would be a good idea for me and her to get married and then we can all be a family together," he rushed the last sentence, before swallowing hard and looking slightly nervously at Jo.

"I like Greg very, very much," Joanna met her daughter's eyes before looking at Jack. Max was already standing, eyes wide and round.

"Are you going to be our dad for _real?"_ he crowed. " _Really?_ "

"Well, I want everyone to be happy with the idea first, Max," Greg began, only to be bowled over by a growing seven-year old with an octopus-like hug.

"About time," Jack grinned at his sister. They'd already been quite sure of this inevitable outcome, even though their mother took a gazillion years to decide on anything. "Does this mean we're going to get a bigger house?"

And so had begun plans for The Great Move.

Knowing from experience that things like house valuations took ages to arrange, both Greg and Joanna were slightly stunned to be advised that a representative from their chosen real estate agency could visit both their dwellings the very next day. The fact that both residences were relatively close by each other meant that the valuations were over and done with inside an hour. An hour after that, each of them received a phone call advising that their properties, being is such desirable locations and in such immaculate condition, had been estimated at an identical amount, £650,000 each. If such an outcome might be achieved, and given that neither property was entailed with a mortgage, then the Lestrade-Foy conglomerate would have well in excess of one million pounds to put towards their future home.

It was then, of course, that the problems began.

While there seemed to be enough money to get something suitable, there was little acceptable housing close in, certainly nothing terribly suitable for the adults to get to work within a reasonable timeframe. And what _was_ closer into town was priced into the multiple millions. If it they did find something nearer work, of reasonable size and affordable price, then it had massive problems, abutted a major road or, in one case, was due for demolition within five years to make way for a new roundabout. Greg and Joanna were still poring over the Saturday housing adverts when Beth stalked into the kitchen, sighed loudly and opened her laptop.

"Here," she said, pressing a single key.

Instantly, a small map of inner London appeared on the screen covered in little blue dots. "These are all the houses being advertised for sale by the same company who you asked to come and look at our house," she looked earnestly at her mother and then Greg. "If you mouse over each coordinate, it'll give you the distance from Scotland Yard and the time it takes to drive there." Demonstrating, Beth clicked on a dot. A fresh page opened, showing all the details relevant to that property. "There," she said. "Easy. Jack and I like this one," she clicked on a dot near Wandsworth Common, smiled happily at both adults, and swanned out of the kitchen.

Greg was the first to laugh. "That girl is going to be terrifying in another ten years," he chuckled.

"She just knows so much about this kind of thing," Jo waved at the computer. "It's almost frightening how she does it."

"Well, at least we can look at the place she and Jack like," Greg turned the laptop so they could both see the details.

On the corner of Thurleigh Road, right opposite the Common itself. A large 1930s detached house with a neatly gravelled front drive, double garage and an enormous back garden. It had five large bedrooms, three bathrooms, a laundry, a large study and a vast central kitchen with a breakfast conservatory. There was a large garden shed and a separate outbuilding which had mains power and water. It was also right in the middle of the catchment area for several good schools and, wonder of wonders, was only twenty-three minutes' drive from the office.

"Yeah, but how much?" Greg frowned. "Places like that must go for ..." he paused, shaking his head doubtfully.

"Offers over £900,000." Jo arched her eyebrows. "It's the garden," she added. "The area isn't zoned for high density homes and so the owners can't redevelop it or do anything except live in a big house with a great big garden," she was grinning. "And clearly nobody wants that much work."

"I'd get Jack and Max to help," Greg mused idly. "If they want a decent back yard to play in, then they'd need to help out, do their bit."

"And we'd be able to pay cash at that price," Jo was nodding. "No mortgage, just the bills and living expenses. I'd want to look at the schools though."

"We could get a gardener if we needed," Greg began feeling enthused. "Get some young bloke in once a month to keep the place tidy, look after things so we can go and do family stuff."

"Family stuff?" Jo looked at him. "Like what?"

"We could be at Dover in two hours from there," Greg's smile held her eyes. "Brighton in one. I've got some distant family in the Provence area."

"I could use the big shed for my pottery."

"We could get a dog for Max."

They looked at each other for a long moment and smiled.

###

The Skylark Café stands centrally on Wandsworth Common, known for its excellent coffee, its family-friendly atmosphere and bucolic surrounds, it is skirted by duck ponds and sports pitches. It was also less than four minutes' walk from the big house on Thurleigh Road. Late on a Saturday morning, the Lestrade-Foy family group gathered for a war council in the café after having spent the last hour poring over the empty building.

After checking out the local schools and shopping amenities, a viewing time had been organised to look over the property. It was indeed large, with the master bedroom and ensuite taking up half of the first floor, another large bedroom next door and the remaining three double bedrooms on the floor above. It seemed ideal though the décor was shabby and dated.

The rear garden was everything Jack wanted and the adults left him planning out his own football pitch while they investigated the outbuildings. The biggest one would make a fine pottery, with ample space for everything Joanna might ever want to do. The garden shed was full of ancient tools and equipment which had Greg immediately curious and keen to investigate. The house needed some attention but at the asking price, there was money in the budget to deal with everything.

There were several good primary schools within a reasonable walking distance and indeed a fancy technical academy a little over a mile away across the Common itself.

"Well me and Jack like it a lot," Beth attacked her banana milkshake. "I like the bedroom overlooking the garden at the back. I can see the bird's nest in the tree right beside the house. I could watch the chicks being born. The old wallpaper smells a bit funny though."

"There's lots of room in the back garden," Jack investigated his toasted sandwich. "It's big enough for a full-size goal almost. We could play football out there and not worry about losing the ball because of the high walls," he took a large bite and sucked cool air through hot cheese. "There's football pitches here as well," he added, waving at the grassy swathe of parkland behind him. "Maybe I could join a local team."

"And what about you, Max?" Joanna looked at her youngest. "Did you like the house and the garden?"

"Could I have a swing on the big tree?" he asked hopefully. "An' maybe a flying fox, an' a slide, an'..."

"We could think about getting a dog too," Greg sipped his cappuccino and watched Jo's expression change at the gasps around the table. "Though only if you're willing to take it for walks and brush it properly, of course," he added swiftly at the theatrically narrowed eyes she sent his way.

"A _dog_ ," Jack and Max stared at each other, oblivious to everything else.

It seemed the decision had been made.

###

The Skylark Café is only one of many, many such establishments south of the Thames, each one open for much of the working week, catering for every different taste and preference beneath the sun. It was curious that, at the very same time the word 'dog' reached the air, a mobile phone rang somewhere deeper inside the café, the sound muffled by ambient noise and clinking from the kitchen.

"Charmed cleaning. Lily speaking."

There was silence for several moments as the woman listened carefully to the question she was being asked.

"Certainly sir. We're able to handle every type of domestic situation for you. How big a property is it and how often would you like it cleaned?"

There was a murmuring from the device held close to her ear.

"Not a problem at all sir. May I have your name, address, phone number and a contact email address so I can send you our services brochure? I'm sure we can provide any cleaning or domestic management service you might need."

The details arranged to her satisfaction, the silver-haired woman sat back and watched the people around her, especially a small family group seated at a distant table, out on the grass. She nodded fractionally and smiled down at her fine tea cup.

The phone rang again, a different tone. _Ah_ , time for another task, it seemed.

"Hi dere, dis am Dawn speakin'. Everyting criss, mi soon come, mi gaan mi bredrin."

Standing slowly to avoid drawing attention to herself, Rowan Good smiled one last time at the children's voices raised in laughter and the evident happiness of Greg and Joanna: another project successfully managed. Leaving a small white card in the middle of the table which would next be used by a middle-aged couple with a problematic mother-in-law, she exited the café through a side door and strolled across the sun-warmed grass of Wandsworth Common towards her next assignment.

A wise woman's work was never done.

###

**The End**


End file.
